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He loved to see the crowd in front of the Exchang-e. 



I 


To Pay the Price. 





iP 


SILAS IC. HOCKING, 

If- 

AUTHOR OF 

‘ WHERE DUTY LIES,” Etc., Etc. 





TWO COPIES RECEIVED, 


SECOND COPY, 


L ibr ary of adiigeac% 
Uffteo of tl li 

MAY 1 2 1900 

Kegittor of 

CiyOUj . 3 ; / 89 J 



61427 

Copyright, 1899 
BY 

ADVANCE PUBLISHING CO. 



JOHN A. ULRICH, Printer and Binder 
74-76 W. Lake St.. Chicago 


CONTENTS. 


On the Edge of the Storm. 
Two Men and a Maid. 

A Woman Intervenes. 

In the Twilight. 

The Hour of Temptation. 
Crossing the Rubicon. 

To London Town. 
Weaving the Mesh. 

The Storm Bursts. 

Visitors. 

The Vicar is Concerned. 
The Way of Deceit. 

A Family Arrangement, 
Rupert’s Visit. 

The Way of the World. 

A Proposal. 

The Price of Sin. 

Liberty and Bondage. 

The Breath of Freedom. 
The Fates are Strong. 
Rupert Gets Impatient. 
Confession. 

Against the Tide. 

The Poison Works. 

A Welcome Meeting. 
Monica’s Visitor. 

Face to Face. 

A Losing Battle. 

A Dangerous Game. 

Asa Man Sows. 

Sorting Things Out. 

It Might Have Been. 

The End of the Tether. 
Time and Change. 

Life’s Little Day. 

The Unexpected Happens 
Father and Son. 


Page. 

i 

9 

17 

25 

33 

40 

47 

56 

64 

73 
81 
90 
98 
106 
1 14 
121 
130 
137 
144 
152 
159 
166 
175 
182 
189 
197 
205 
212 
219 
226 

234 

242 

249 

256 

263 

270 

277 




TO PAY THE PRICE 


CHAPTER I. 

ON THE EDGE OF THE STORM. 

T was morning and summer time. The air was 
cool, and fragrant of the woods and fields. In 
the blue dome of heaven a few white clouds floated 
slowly past, and on the earth the dew drops were 
sparkling everywhere like points of fire. Robert Morton 
came bareheaded into his garden and walking up to a large 
pear tree, leaned his shoulders against it and looked away 
across the valley to the distant range of hills. 

It was a morning to touch the heart with hope and glad- 
ness, to cheer the disconsolate and give courage to the de- 
spairing. Yet it brought neither courage nor cheer to Robert 
Morton. He stood in the sunshine without feeling it; looked 
off upon the landscape without seeing it; drank in the sweet 
breath of the morning, and knew not that it was fragrant 
with the breath of uncounted and ungathered flowers. 

He was a sad-faced man, with a high forehead and dimin- 
utive chin. A silent man on the whole, for his thoughts 
kept him so busy that he had little time to talk and less 
inclination. He had never been an optimist and with in- 
crease of years life's outlook seemed to get greyer and more 
depressing. 

But the outlook never seemed so dark as at present. The 
morning’s post had brought him an urgent and peremptory 
demand for money. Such demands had become common 
of late. He was in debt to a dozen people and they had 
become pressing and clamorous. In the village his credit 
was still good, and none of his acquaintances had any sus- 
picion that he was in pecuniary straits. But the secret was 
bound to come out soon, and then what would become of 




2 


TO PAY THE PRICE. 


him and his family? One mitigating circumstance there 
certainly was. He had not spent the money on himself, it 
was not in consequence of any personal extravagance that 
he had got into debt; he had been careful even to penurious- 
ness. He had denied himself to give his nephew Harry the 
benefits of a good education, and this was the result. 

Perhaps he had not been absolutely disinterested in the 
matter. As a matter of fact he would not have compro- 
mised himself in such a manner and got into such finan- 
cial straits, had it not been for the urgency of Lord Men- 
heriot. The Earl, who was childless himself, had taken a 
fancy to Harry. Hot only his handsome presence, but his 
mental aptitude had won him favor in the nobleman’s eyes. 

“I say Morton,” he had said more than once, “you must 
let that young man read for the Bar, you really must. He’ll 
become a Q. C. (Queen’s Counsel) in time, if you give him 
a chance, and what is more, I’ll see to it that you are not 
out of pocket iif the end.” 

So partly to please the Earl, and partly in the hope that 
his own fortune would be advanced thereby, he had allowed 
Harry to read for the Bar, and made himself responsible 
for all the costs. 

He was regretting it now. Lord Menheriot had said 
nothing lately about meeting Harry’s expenses, and he had 
not got to the end of them yet. When Harry had passed 
his final, which he hoped to do in October, what then? Bar- 
risters did not get briefs in a moment. They could not go 
out and tout for them as a shopkeeper did for orders; and 
indeed unless a man had influential friends he might wait 
until the moss grew on his eyebrows and all the blood dried 
up in his veins. 

“I ought to have foreseen all this,” Robert Morton said 
to himself bitterly, asi he looked with unseeing eyes across 
the smiling landscape. “Lord Menheriot is like the rest of 
the world: he makes promises one minute, and forgets them 
the next.” 

A step on the gravel behind him caused him to look 
round, and he saw Harry advancing towards him. 

“So you are getting your morning’s sunbath, eh, father?” 
the young man said with a genial smile. 

“Hay, I’m getting a breath of fresh air, that’s all.” 


ON THE EDGE OF THE STORM. 


3 


“It’s what I’ve come out for myself. I’ve been working 
since four,” and he stretched himself and yawned. 

“I hope you'll get some good out of all your toil!” the 
older man said gloomily, “though I very much doubt it. 
The toilers get all the kicks in this world; the idlers grab 
the pence.” 

“Not all of it, Dad. In the professions it is generally 
the hardest workers that get the plums.” 

“Not generally, my boy. You are young yet, and look 
hopefully at the world. I have toiled hard enough all my 
life, God knows, and here am 1 not only in poverty, but in 
debt.” 

“That’s partly my fault,” and the young man’s face 
clouded; “but I hope some day, Dad, I shall be able to 
repay you, and with compound interest.” 

“While waiting for the grass to grow, the horse starves,” 
Robert Merton answered moodily, “and in the meantime Lord 
Menberiot appears inclined to do nothing.” 

“He told me once that when I had pulled off all the 
exams he would pay the piper, but I would rather he didn’t.” 

“Bather he didn’t!” 

“Yes, I don’t like to feel that I am dependent on a 
stranger.” 

“That’s all nonsense, Harry. I should have never in- 
curred all the expense on your account, but for what the 
Earl said; and now he seems inclined to back out of his 
promise and leave me in the mud.” 

“We’ve always found him a man of his word,” Harry 
said, “and then, you see, he is not particularly rich. His 
father was made *a peer for political services, but I don’t 
think he left much money.” 

“He’s all Graystone, hasn’t he?” 

“Yes, and if he owned the entire county I should still 
wish not to be dependent on him. If he does anything, I 
shall look upon it merely as a loan.” 

“You are much too squeamish my boy,” said the older 
man. “I’ve done the work of steward for him for the last 
ten years, and he’s paid me but a beggarly salary for it, as 
you know.” 

“And yet, when he offered you the post, I’ve heard you 
say you felt as though your fortune was made.” 


4 


TO PAY TEE PRICE. 


“That is true, hut a drowning man will grasp at any 
straw, and a schoolmaster’s salary in Graystone is starva- 
tion when there’s a family to be brought up.” 

“Oh well,” said Harry with a smile, “let’s not always 
look at the dark side of things; circumstances will mend 
after -awhile if we are only patient.” 

“I don’t want to discourage you,” said the older man; 
“but unless Lord Menheriot keeps his promise soon, both 
you and I will find ourselves in queer street.” And he 
turned on his heel and walked back into the house. 

Harry watched him with a feeling almost of remorse in 
his heart. He felt as though he had been the weight that 
had caused the stoop in his shoulders, and crushed the sun- 
shine out of his life. 

“Poor old father!” he said to himself; “the fa'tes have 
always been against him. He has tried hard enough, heaven 
knows; but I think his persistent pessimism has hindered 
him all the way. Perhaps the clouds will lift later on,” 
and he smiled and raised his face to the sunshine. 

It was impossible for a young man of abounding health 
and vigor to be pessimistic on such a morning. The air it- 
self was almost as intoxicating as champagne. The sky was 
all asparkle with light, as were the neighboring plantations 
that encircled Graystone Park; the birds were singing fit to 
split their throats. 

Looking away between the trees in the direction of the 
Hall, he fancied he caught the gleam of a white dress, and 
for a moment the color mounted to his cheeks, and his heart 
throbbed perceptibly faster. 

“I wonder if I shall have a chance of seeing her to-day,” 
he muttered to himself. “Oh! I hope I shall. I know I’m 
a fool, and that the reckoning day is sure to come. But 
what’s the odds? The dream is sweet while it lasts.” 

He was still looking away through the trees and smil- 
ing when a sweet musical voice called from the doorway: 

“Breakfast is ready, Harry.” 

“And I’m ready for it, Madge,” he answered, as he strode 
towards her. 

“I went to look for you in your room,” she said smil- 
ing at him, “but found that the bird had flown.” 

“Didn’t father tell you I was in the garden?” 


ON TEE EDGE OF THE STORM. 


5 


“I did not ask him.” 

“And have you cooked the breakfast, as usual?” 

“Dora and I between us. Mother has one of her bad 
headaches again this morning.” 

“You are a good girl, Madge,” and he stopped and kissed 
her sweet lips, and then they passed together into the house. 

He did not know that Madge was not his sister; neither 
was she aware of the fact. For some reason, best kno\^n 
to themselves, Robert Morton and his wife had kept from 
Harry the secret o>f his parentage, and there 'was no one else 
to enlighten him. He had lived with them since he was a 
year old; had always called them Father and Mother, and 
no one could say that they had not done their duty by him. 

It is true Robert Morton received a hundred pounds when 
he adopted the child, as well as all the furniture belonging 
to his dead sister. The furniture he kept, for he had not 
been long married himself; but the money lie invested, and 
it went the way that so many investments go. A few months 
later he got an appointment as master of a village school 
in Yorkshire. Two years later he. removed to a village in 
Norfolk. A year later he moved again and this time to Lon- 
don; but he quickly tired of the great city and sought the 
country once more. When Harry was ten years of age the 
parochial school of Graystone in Hertfordshire fell vacant, 
and Robert Morton applied for the post and got it. 

The salary was only small, but it was the best he had yet 
received, and he tried to be grateful arid content. Two years 
later Lord Menheriot offered him the post of steward in 
addition, and then he felt as though his fortune was made. 
Fifty pounds a year, in addition to what he had been re- 
ceiving, seemed positive wealth, and since the duties attached 
to the office were exceedingly light — for the Graystone es- 
tate was only a small one : — he felt grateful, and for a year 
or two looked at the world through rose-colored spectacles, 
and fancied that life was not such a bad thing, after all. 
But expenses have an unpleasant way of increasing without 
your knowing how. Robert Morton spent no more upon him- 
self than formerly, while his wife was always of an economi- 
cal turn. But the girls as they grew older, wanted more 
clothes and better. Then Bob was born (they christened him 
Robert after his Father, but called him Bob by way of dis- 


6 


TO PAY THE PRICE. 


tinetion) and Bob proved to be a most unlucky baby. He 
took everything in the shape of disease that came along. He 
had such a liking for measles that he took them three times. 
He began to wrestle with whooping-cough when he was only 
three months old. How he conquered was a puzzle to every- 
body. Bronchitis became quite a familiar friend of his. 
Mumps and nettlei rash he took very little notice of. He 
smiled cheerfully through a severe attack of scarlatina; but 
diphtheria nearly killed him. Indeed the doctor gave no 
hope at all, but Bob was not to* be beaten. He came out 
of the ordeal but a wreck of his former self, but cheerful 
and good tempered with all. 

When he had exhausted all the diseases common to child- 
hood he began sundry experiments with his constitution on 
his own account. - He got blood-poisoning through driving 
a rusty nail into his foot, suffered from congestion of the 
brain through falling downstairs; got his arm broken in get- 
ting under a cart wheel, and came near drowning so often 
that he got quite used to it. 

If there was a ring-worm within a mile of Graystone he 
got it. Warts flourished so abundantly on his hands that 
he could have supplied the county and then had) a few to 
spare. And for a short space he suffered from St. Vitus’s 
Dance, much to his own amusement. Yet he grew and flour- 
ished in spite of everything. Whatever might be the con- 
dition of his body, he always carried a cheerful spirit. But 
he wore out his mother with anxiety, and broke down her 
health with constant nursing. So that when he was out of 
the doctor’s hands she almost invariably took his place, and 
in this way expenses grew and multiplied, and the extra fifty 
pounds a year were quickly swallowed up and lost. 

Robert Morton soon fell back into his old condition of 
pessimism and doubt. The people who deserved the least 
seemed to get the best time of it. The hardest worker gen- 
erally got the worst pay, and those who rolled in wealth did 
nothing for it. The honest man was shunted or trampled 
to death by the crowd; the rogue received honor and distinc- 
tion and applause. Tie really saw no good in being honest 
and industrious and squeamish on little points of so-called 
honor. Honor and integrity and industry were pretty words 
and sounded well; but in the rough turmoil of the world 


ON THE EDGE OF THE STOttM, 


1 


they were in the way. Those who discarded sueli incuim 
brances appeared to get on the best; he had been as par^ 
ticular as any man could be, and what was he the better 
for it? 

So, year by year, his faith and hope had dwindled, and 
religion in his eyes seemed but a superstition that the clergy 
kept alive for their own gain and advantage. He went to 
church, as in duty bound, for it was a tradition in Gray- 
stone that the schoolmaster should lead the singing in church 
on Sundays, and, if need be, preside at the organ. 

But as time went on, he began to dislike Sunday more 
than any other day in the week. He believed nothing that 
he heard; felt the truth of nothing that he sang. It was 
all' to him a vain show, a silly, meaningless performance. 
The dear old vicar, who was nearly ninety, droned out, Sun- 
day by Sunday, a series of juiceless platitudes, and stumbled 
through the lessons and prayers in the most perfunctory way. 
He had done the same thing in the same church for sixty 
years, until he had lost even the semblance of enthusiasm or 
conviction. 

That he was a good man, simple-hearted and sincere, all 
admitted, and everybody loved him; but he had outlived his 
day and generation; outlived his own enthusiasm; outlived 
the thrill of ecstasy of his earliest ministry. 

But, two years before our story opens, he fell asleep, 
and was gathered to his fathers, and Melville Grant, first 
cousin of Lord Menheriot and heir presumptive to Graystone 
was inducted into the vacant living. 

The new vicar was an energetic man, and soon wrought 
a revolution in the place. Some of the old villagers looked 
on with wonder, and even alarm, at the novelties that were 
introduced. But the new order of things was more helpful 
to Eobert Morton than the old. If anything, it intensified the 
cynicism that had already rooted itself deeply v in his heart, 
and quenched the last spark of revenge that he possesed. 

He had no idea whither he was drifting. Indeed he was 
not conscious that he was adrift at all. He had loosened his 
moorings so gradually and imperceptibly, that when the tide 
began to bear him away from the old place of anchorage, he 
was sublimely unconscious of it. He did not see the rocks 
in the near distance, nor hear the roar of the breakers. 


8 


TO PAT THE PRICE. 


Oil the morning in question, he ate his breakfast: in 
silence, and then went out into the sunshine again, and saun- 
tered slowly along the quiet lane in the direction of the vil- 
lage. He had plenty of time at his disposal for school did 
not open till nine. Once or twice he paused, and rested his 
elbows on a gate, and looked wearily across the green pas- 
turage; and wondered, as he had often wondered lately, how, 
or in what way, he would be able to meet the financial crisis 
that was so swiftly overtaking him. 

Had he been endowed with cleared vision, he might have 
seen that the crisis that was overtaking him was not merely 
financial — that that indeed was the least fateful feature in it 
— that a great moral crisis was approaching, the issues of 
which no one could foresee or measure. 

There is a common belief that coming events cast their 
shadows before. They may do so sometimes, but they do not 
do so always nor even often. It is generally the unexpected 
that happens. Fate is tricky and loves to tease us and cheat 
us and lure us on with hopes that end in nothing. 

Robert Morton saw the forces gathering in one direction; 
but the real forces were gathering in quite another; gather- 
ing without si£n or sound or the faintest stirring of the air. 
He expected battle; but the battle was to be of a kind that 
he had not dreamed of, and he was but ill prepared for the 
encouner. 


CHAPTER II. 


TWO MEN AND A MA[D. 

IRECTLY breakfast was over Harry went back to 
his books and worked steadily at them till lunch 
time, after which he took a stroll for the benefit 
of his health. His ‘step was a little less buoyant 
than usual. The pinch of poverty was affecting his spirits 
unconsciously, he had begun to question whether in his posi- 
tion in life it was not a foolish thing to aspire to one of 
the learned professions. 

Yet to give up the prospect now, and go back again to 
the drudgery and monotony of the day-school teacher, was 
too terrible to contemplate. For the last five years he had 
been working almost night and day; teaching in the day 
time, cramming at night. A month ago he gave up going 
to the school so that he might give six months of undivided 
attention to preparation for his final, but there had been 
fees and dinners and numberless incidentals which had been 
heart-breaking both to his father and to himself, and now 
the creditors had begun to clamor and threaten for their 
money. 

Harry walked slowly for some little distance down the 
road, past the Lodge gates of Graystone, then turning sud- 
denly to the left he vaulted lightly over a stile and struck 
a footpath leading across the fields in the direction of Min- 
ver, three miles away. At one point this ancient footpath 
cut across a corner of Graystone Park and brought the stately 
and turreted old Hall well into sight. 

It was a favorite walk of Harry’s. He liked the open 
field path; the air was so much fresher than in the lanes. 
He liked the shadow of the trees in the summer time. He 
liked to listen to the dreary murmur of the wind through 
their branches; he liked the smell of the wild flowers. Above 
all he liked to catch a glimpse of Monica Stuart as she saun- 
tered across the lawn among the banks of roses and fuchsias, 
the sweetest flower of them all. 




10 


TO PAY TEE PRICE. 


Monica was a bright, winsome girl of eighteen. She had 
not made her debut in society yet. She was to be presented 
at the next Drawing Room. Harry was sixteen and she was 
twelve when they first met, both too young to consider the 
question of social distinctions. They liked each other from 
their first meeting, and in Harry’s case the liking had rip- 
ened into something very near akin to love. He knew from 
the first that his passion was hopeless and now and then 
had struggled bravely to overcome it, and but for the field- 
path cutting across the Parkland the chances that it gave 
of seeing and even speaking with Monica, he might have 
conquered his love. But every time he met her added fresh 
fuel to the fire. She was always so free and sweet and gra- 
cious with him. Had he been heir to an Earldom instead 
of only a school-master’s son, she could not have treated him 
with more respect. 

Of late a pang of jealousy had been added to his love. 
Rupert Grant, the Vicar’s son, had begun to pay Monica 
very marked attention, and whispers had been current in the 
village that they were to be formally engaged when Monica 
was nineteen. 

From a social point of view, the alliance seemed a very 
proper and desirable one. The vicar was heir to Graystone, 
but since he was as old as the Earl within a year, the chances 
were that Lord Menheriot might outlive him, in which case 
Rupert would be heir at law. In any case, providing he lived 
long enough, he would sooner or later succeed to the title 
and the estates. Monica was an orphan and the only child 
of the late Sir Lawrence Stuart of Bryn wild, Buckingham- 
shire, and consequently heiress to a considerable portion of 
the vast estate he left behind him. 

From every point of view, therefore, Monica would be a 
very desirable match. At the present time Rupert was as 
impecunious as Harry, but since his credit was good, he did 
not feel to the same extent the pinch of poverty. He had 
been called to the bar two years previously, and at that point 
his acquaintance with the law stopped suddenly short. As 
yet he had never been entrusted with a brief; as a matter 
of fact he had made no real attempt to practice as a Bar- 
rister. Like many another scion of the privileged classes he 
had been hanging around Westminster in the hope that his 


TWO MEN AND A MAID. 


11 


good looks, his poverty and his prospective title would win 
him a sinecure, with a decent salary attached. 

Meanwhile, however, Rupert’s thoughts had turned (not 
for the first time) towards matrimony. Monica had suddenly 
sprung from a girl into a woman, and an exceedingly pretty 
woman, too. He had thought little of her as a girl; as a 
matter of fact he was seven years her senior, and all girls 
were more or less alike in his eyes, lank, gawky and, gener- 
ally speaking, disagreeable. 

But the passing from girlhood into young-womanhood 
had in Monica’s case registered a wonderful change. At least 
so it had appeared to him. He was quite charmed when he 
first saw her, after her hair had been done up in a shining 
coil at the back of her head. 

“By Jove,” he said to himself, “Monica is a woman and 
marriageable,” and he began to make more particular in- 
quiries as to the amount of her wealth and the conditions 
attached to the same. These conditions he found to be quite 
satisfactory from his point of view. Monica had pin-money 
enough now to keep him in comfort, and when she was twen- 
ty-one she would be mistress of her own estates. 

“Courting Monica,” he chuckled, “will be more interest- 
ing than hanging about Westminster. By Jove, she is pretty, 
and all the prettier for being so well gilded. The only dif- 
ficulty in the way is — ” but he did not finish the sentence. 

Monica, however, was not particularly flattered; but she 
was only a girl at heart, and had not learned to dissemble 
and play the hypocrite. In fact, only a week or two before 
our story opens she had deliberately left Rupert’s side in the 
middle of a sentence and hurried across the Park to speak 
to Harry Morton who had suddenly come in sight. 

Rupert’s brow clouded as he watched her talking to the 
ex-schoolteacher. 

“Well, I wonder what next,” he said to himself; “she will 
have to understand what her true position is. Evidently by 
the way she smiles and chatters this is not the first tete-a-tete 
they have had. Of course the fellow will be only too de- 
lighted to be noticed by her. I wonder if Menheriot knows, 
for if not, 'it is about time he was told, as her guardian he 
will have to look after her.” 

He did not attempt to follow Monica, but sauntered to 


12 


TO PAY THE PRICE. 


and fro on the edge of the lawn, and watched the young 
people from under his eyebrows. 

When at length Monica returned to him, radiant and smil- 
ing, he gently took her to task for her indiscretion. 

“Do you know that young man to whom you have been 
speaking?” he said quite gravely and seriously. 

“Why of course I know him, Rupert. Do you think I 
would run across the Park to speak to someone I did not 
know?” and she laughed brightly as though the suggestion 
were altogether too absurd. 

“But have you ever considered the difference in your so- 
cial positions?” he said in grave tones. 

“I am afraid I have not,” she answered with a smile. 
“What are they?” 

“0 fie, fie!” he said patronizingly; “you surely know that 
he is only the son of a schoolmaster.” 

“And you are only the son of a Vicar, so what’s the dif- 
ference?” 

“I should hope there is a great deal of difference.” 

“Well, yes, one preaches to big folks in a church, and the 
other teaches small folks in a schoolroom, and is not it as 
honorable to teach little folks as big ones?” 

“Pm afraid you do not understand, Monica,” he said in 
aggrieved tones; “you must remember that my father is a 
Grant.” 

“And his father is a Morton.” 

“But who are the Mortons? Surely they are not the 
kind of people for the daughter of Sir Lawrence Stuart to 
associate with.” 

“And why not? Sir Lawrence Stuart was only a work- 
ing man when he was young. I’ve heard him say so again 
and again. He made all- his money promoting railways in 
Brazil, and then he came home and got married when he 
was fifty and went into Parliament and gave heaps of money 
and got knighted. Oh you think I’m only a girl and don’t 
know -anything, but I do,” and her delicate nostrils expanded 
and her eyes shone with a seriousness that he had never seen 
in them before. 

“I am afraid this is scarcely to the point,” he said stiffly. 
“You must remember, Monica, that you are a woman now, 
and there are certain proprieties to be observed and — ” 


TWO MEN AND A MAID. 


13 


“Oh, indeed!” she interrupted; “then I think you might 
address me as Miss Stuart.” 

“Ah, now you are cross, and I would not vex you for the 
world. 1 assure you that I have only your good and happi- 
ness at heart, and I really do not think it is for your good 
that you should go bounding across the grounds to speak 
to every Dick, Tom and Harry that may cross the Park.” 

“Oh thank you, Mr. Rupert Grant,” she said half petu- 
lantly, half mischievously, “I do not speak to every Harry 
that crosses the Park, only to one of them, and he* is going 
to be a Barrister and so will be quite equal to you soon, if 
he is not so already.” 

Rupert bit his lip and was silent. He felt that he was 
getting along very badly. If he was to win Monica Stuart, 
and share her fortune he must try -another method. Evi- 
dently she was not to be driven, and yet there was danger 
in a romantic girl of eighteen, with outrageously radical ten- 
dencies, meeting a handsome young fellow like Harry Mor- 
ton without let or hindrance. What was to be done? That 
he was not the person to advise her was evident. He would 
speak to his father. His father would counsel the Earl and 
so the matter would be settled. 

Monica had not seen Harry since that day and wondered 
why. She knew that he was working hard; but she knew 
also that when the weather was fine he invariably took a 
long walk in the afternoon and of late the weather had been 
glorious. It was strange therefore that she had never seen 
him crossing the Park. 

Harry had equally wondered why Monica had so per- 
sistently kept out of his sight. Had she done so of delib- 
erate purpose; or had her guardian been using his influence? 

He knew that their casual meetings and pleasant con- 
versations would have to end sooner or later. Monica was 
no longer a girl. Her life was far apart from his. Between 
the rich and poor a great gulf was fixed. She would soon 
be moving in the inner circle of what the world was pleased 
to call “Society,” the laws of which were as rigid and inflexi- 
ble as those of the Medes and Persians. 

Harry shared the common feeling of his class. He was 
born in a cottage, hence the mansions of the rich were as 
much out of his reach as the North Pole, and he pined for 


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neither. He belonged to the common people, and between 
him and the privileged and aristocratic classes there could 
be no intercourse. It was of no use beating the air or hing- 
ing dust in the teeth of the storm. He accepted the posi- 
tion. He would feel the pain directly when his bright-hued 
bird unfolded her wings and hew away from him; but it 
could not be helped. He would endure silently; that was 
the privilege of the poor. They were always enduring, and 
he could suffer as silently as the rest. 

As he crossed the Park this sunshiny afternoon, and 
looked towards the Graystone Mansion, and lingered at the 
stile, and looked again, he wondered if the end had come 
already to the pleasant dream that had held him in thrall 
so long, and if for the future only: the memory of it would 
remain? He had no right to expect her, he knew. She 
belonged to a different world from his. Perhaps she had 
realized this at last, and henceforth would pass him by on 
the other side. He turned after he had vaulted over the 
stile and looked once more, but she was nowhere visible and 
with a little sigh he lifted up his head and quickened his 
steps in the direction of Minver. 

Across two fields and then a tall bank of earth covered 
with brush wood formed the boundary between two farms 
and blocked the distant landscape. A quaint stile, half wood, 
half stone, carried the path over the hedge into the next 
field. 

Harry marched resolutely forward at a swinging pace 
until he reached this stile, and then he stopped suddenly 
and his lips parted in an exclamation of surprise and pleasure. 

Peeping over the stile were the sweet eyes of Monica. 

“I saw* you coming,” she said in her free careless fash- 
ion, “and waited.” 

“Are you going in the direction of Minver?” he asked. 

“Ho, I’ve been there and am now returning.” 

“Oh! I see.” 

“It was better than meeting in the middle of a field,” she 
said with a laugh, “for I can sit here in the shade while 
you talk.” 

“It seems quite an age since I saw you,” he said uneasily. 

“And the last time you did see me you seemed in a 
great hurry to get away.” 


TWO MEN AND A MAID. 


15 


“l knew that Mr. Rupert Grant was waiting for you.” 

“And what of that?” 

“Well, it was scarcely my place to come between you.” 

“He wastes a deal of my time as it is,” she said with a 
pout; “and any excuse of getting away from him is welcome.” 

Harry’s face brightened, for he had been feeling some- 
tiling very different. 

“1 thought his company was always welcome,” he said 
with a laugh. 

“And that your own was disagreeable, as you have kept 
so much out of my way?” 

“Ho, Monica, I have not thought that exactly. Only I 
know of course that things cannot continue as they are. 
You have been very kind to me; but I think we have both 
forgotten that we belong to different hemispheres, if I may 
so speak.” 

“You mean that I have more money and live in a big- 
ger house than you?” 

“Yes, with all that that implies.” 

“I thought you knew me better, Harry. As if that could 
make any difference.” 

“It must make a difference sooner or later, Monica. You 
don’t see it yet, perhaps; but you will see it later on. We 
are all of us the creatures of circumstances. As soon as we 
begin to think and feel we discover that we are in a cage. 
For a while we may bruise ourselves against the bars; but 
we soon settle down to the inevitable and try to make the 
best of it.” 

“And you mean to say that I am in a cage?” 

“Undeniably, and you will find it out quite soon enough. 
It may be a gilded one. It may be more than usually spa- 
cious, but the bars hedge you around on every side. You 
have not found your wings yet; and when you do you will 
find what convention means, and what a stern jailor custom 
can be.” 

“And where will you be?” 

“I shall be caged also,” he said smiling. “Only my cage 
will not be gilded. It will also be very narrow and cold, 
and possibly I shall eat my heart out in it and wish that 
I had never been born.” 

“And will your cage be near mine?” 


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“Oh, no,” he said with a laugh; “the Jews have no deal- 
ings with the Samaritans.” 

“And you are a Jew, are you?” and she laughed a sweet, 
musical laugh. 

“I see you don’t believe me,” he said, turning from her 
and looking across the fields. “I sometimes wish things were 
otherwise. If you were only of the people we might be 
friends always, and — and some day perhaps — who knows — 
but there — what’s the use of talking. If money grew on 
thorns we should all be rich.” 

“I think you have been working too hard,” she said with 
a smile. “What’s to hinder us from being friends always?” 

He turned and looked at her again, and she met his grave 
looks with frank, laughing eyes. She was the sweetest, most 
winsome maiden, he believed, that ever was, and there could 
never be one like her again. 

“If I could only think so Monica,” he said, “nothing 
would be too hard, nothing too painful. I would rather have 
your friendship than wealth, and a smile from you — ” 

“Why here comes Rupert Grant,” she said interrupting, 
and with a face like a congested thundercloud. 


CHAPTER III. 


A WOMAN INTERVENES. 

AERY looked over his shoulder, and his face dark- 
ened. He had never liked Rupert Grant, and he 
liked him less every day. His airs and graces an- 
gered him, and his marked- attention to Monica 
made him jealous, his present appearance seemed an imperti- 
nence. 

“He will be reading me another lecture, I expect,” Mon- 
ica said with a pout. 

“Another lecture?” Harry questioned. “Has he lectured 
you before?” 

“You should have heard him, when I ran across the lawn 
to speak to you the other day.” 

“The prig. What concern is that of his I wonder.” 

“That is what I wonder. But he looks as if he meant 
mischief this time. See how his mouth is working. He 
might be a cow chewing its cud.” 

Harry laughed; but he did not look round. Monica was 
still perched on the stile, her elbow on her knee and her 
chin in her hand. Harry stood a pace o-r two away. She 
made so pretty a picture that he fancied that he would never 
tire looking at her. Moreover he was haunted by a vague 
foreboding that he might never come so near to her again. 

He heard Rupert Grant’s footstep coming nearer and 
nearer. He saw by the look in Monica’s eyes that she was 
watching his approach. He wondered which of them would 
speak first. Monica was looking very demure and deter- 
mined; her pretty lips were set tightly together. 

Rupert was the first to speak. 

“Good afternoon, Monica,” he said, in his blandest tones. 
“I scarcely expected to find you so far away from home.” 

.“No?”' 

Rupert coughed and looked uneasy. The situation for 
the moment was embarrassing. He could not forget that 
Harry Morton was present, though he absolutely ignored 




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him, Monica was distinctly unfriendly, which angered him, 

“I hope you do not often venture into these fields urn 
protected,” he remarked at length. 

“Why not?” the words came sharp and abrupt. 

“Well, because it seems to me neither proper nor safe.’* 

“Indeed.” 

“And I feel sure Lord Menheriot would not approve if 
he knew.” 

“My guardian is able to speak for himself.” 

Rupert bit his lip, and his eyes blazed, but he kept him- 
self well in hand. 

“You should not get angry with your friends Monica,” 
he said mildly; “will you not allow me to see you home?” 

“Thank you, I am not a child; besides you were going 
the other way.” 

“But my time is at my own disposal, and, I may add, 
at yours.” 

“Thank you, I do not need company; besides I am not 
alone as you see. I presume you know Mr. Harry Morton.” 

“Ho, I have not the honor of his acquaintance.” 

“Allow me to introduce you,” and she smiled mischiev- 
ously. “Mr. .” 

“I do not desire an introduction,” he interrupted angrily. 
“What we say to each other can be said without Such for- 
mality,” and he turned and darted an angry and meaning 
glance at Harry. 

“I am at your service at any time,” the latter answered, 
and his lip curled unconsciously. 

“I am going in the direction of Minver,” and he raised 
his hat to Monica, while she moved aside for him to get 
over the stile. She did not speak to him, but when Harry 
turned to follow, she held out her hand to him and gave 
him one of her sweetest smiles. 

“I hope those two young men won’t quarrel!” she said 
to herself as she seated herself on the stile once more. Then 
a smile spread itself over her face like a ray. of sunshine. 
The possibility of a quarrel evidently did not trouble her. 

Meanwhile, Rupert Grant had crossed the adjoining field 
and entered on the one hey on d it. Here he waited for Harry 
to come up. He did not wait long. Harry was tingling with 
impatience to meet the man who had so openly snubbed him, 


A WOMAN INTERVENES. 


19 


“Do you know wliat I think of fellows of your stamp ?” 
Rupert said with flashing eyes as Harry drew near. 

“I neither know nor care what you think,” was the re- 
ply; “but you may be interested to know that I consider you 
a contemptible cad.” 

“You do, eh? How interesting. It is possible, how- 
ever, that you may hold a somewhat different opinion be- 
fore I have done with you.” 

“Possibly, but I shall never think you a gentleman in 
any ease.” 

“What you think can never be of any account,” was the 
sneering reply. “Such as you do not know what a gentle- 
man is. If you had the faintest instinct of a gentleman 
I should not have found you where I did to-day.” 

“Indeed. I believe this is a public footpath.” 

“And the greater pity when such as you are allowed to 
prowl about and work mischief.” 

“Now you are getting interesting; please proceed.” 

“Bah! if you were not a low-born brute I might appeal 
to you. What right have you to be seen speaking to Miss 
Stuart?” 

“May I ask who are you, and by what right you ask any 
such question?” 

“I have every right. Miss Stuart is my cousin’s ward as 
you know very well — to say nothing of any closer relation- 
ship that may exist in the future. Everything that concerns 
her, indirectly concerns me. You know that you have no 
right to force your presence upon her, and yet you do it 
constantly. You take advantage of her youth and of her 
quixotic and adventurous temperament. You waylay her as 
she is crossing the fields — ■” 

“It is a lie sir, and you know it,” Harry hissed while his 
eyes flashed fire. 

“Have I not just met you together?” was the reply; “you 
talking to her as though there was no difference in your 
social positions, looking at her with your bold eyes as though 
you were her equal. I tell you, sir, it is intolerable.” 

“It is true you found me talking to Miss Stuart. She 
was returning from Minver and sat down on the stile and 
waited for me to come up. Should I refuse to speak to her 
when she spoke to me? Am I to be rude because I am of 


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humble birth? We have known each other since we were 
children almost; and I have as much right to speak to her 
as you have. It is no fault of mine that she does not favor 
your attentions.” 

“What is that?” and Rupert grew livid with rage. “Do 
you dare to insinuate?” 

“I insinuate nothing. I am in the habit of speaking 
plainly, and certainly Miss Stuart did not seem greatly flat- 
tered by your presence a few minutes since.” 

“And. whose fault was that? It was because you, with 
your hateful tongue, had been trying to poison her mind,” 
e»nd Rupert clenched his lists and came a step nearer his 
opponent. 

“I deny your accusation,” Harry said bitingly, “and if 
you were not a cad you would not suggest such a thing/* 

“Call me a cad again,” the other hissed, “and you will 
rue it,” 

“I repeat it,” Harry answered; “you are a jealous, cow- 
ardly cad.” 

The answer came sudden as a flash and Harry reeled be- 
fore the stinging blow that caught him just above the left 
ear. 

He recovered himself, however, instantly and leaped upon 
his opponent like an infuriated tiger, dealing him a blow 
between the eyes that fairly stunned him. 

A moment or two later they had both of them thrown 
off their coats and were glaring and lurching at each other 
like a pair of savages. For several minutes the blows fell 
fast and furious. They were pretty evenly matched and 
neither of them for a while seemed to gain any advantage. 
Both were in a white heat of passion, both reckless and de- 
termined, both insensible to pain. The surface had been 
scratched and the savage had been discovered underneath. 

Had they been less blinded by passion, they would have 
fought with more skill. Harry, if anything, was the more 
collected of the two, and parried perhaps the greater number 
of blows; but it was an encounter they would both feel 
ashamed of later on. There was no skill or science on either 
side. It was just’ a trial of brute* strength and endurance. 
Backward and forward they swayed and lunged, hitting out 
wildly and recklessly, lost to all sense of fairness and compas- 


A WOMAN INTERVENES , 


21 


sion, each, bent on punishing the other and caring nothing 
that he was being punished himself. 

It became at length a question of endurance; the blows 
fell more and more slowly and feeib'ly; their heavy breathing 
could be heard half a field away. Their strained and knotted 
muscles had reached the utmost limit of tension; a mist was 
coming up before their eyes so that they could hardly see 
each other. 

Monica, seated on the stile a little more than a field away, 
woke from her daydream at length and sprang to her feet. 

“I don’t feel quite easy about those boys,” she said,- knit- 
ting her fair brows. “I hope they have not quarrelled with 
each other,” and she climbed to the highest point of the 
stile and looked across the fiel£. Through a gap in the fur- 
ther hedge she saw something white swaying to and fro. 

“Oh, I do hope — — ” and she sprang down on the fur- 
ther side without completing the sentence, and hurried 
swiftly across the field. She cleared the next stile almost at 
a bound and then she stood still, too horrified to cry out 
or even to move. It was only for a moment, however. Set- 
ting her teeth firmly together, and clenching her small hands 
she rushed up to the combatants. They did not see her, 
they were almost blind. 

For another moment she stood fascinated by the savage 
energy with which they threw themselves at each other. 
Then as they drew apart to regain their breath, she rushed 
in between them. 

“Cowards,” she cried, “cowards, both of you.” 

“Get out of the way,” Rupert gasped, “and let me kill 
him.” 

“He is more likely to kill you by present appearances,” 
she said. 

“Fd rather be killed than own myself beaten by a clown,” 
he almost shrieked. “I tell you. get out of the way.” 

“I will not get out of the way,” she cried wondering at 
her own courage. “I’m ashamed of you both. Which struck 
the first blow?” 

“I did,” Rupert answered savagely, “and I’ll strike the 
last.” 

“Will you?” she answered. “I’ll know first why you be- 
gan the quarrel.” 


2‘2 


TO PAY THE PRICE. 

“He called me a cad, a contemptible cad, and I punched 
his head for it.” 

“Did you call names?” she said, turning upon Harry 
fiercely. 

“I did; he has spoken the truth.” 

“And why did you do so?” 

“You had better ask him,” he said with a wave of his 
hand. 

“I spoke in defence of you,” Rupert snarled; “you were 
the cause.” 

“Defence?” she questioned, looking from one to the other. 

“He said that I waylaid you in the fields; that I forced 
my hateful presence upon you; that I tried to poison your 
mind; that •” 

“And I spoke the truth,” Rupert interrupted, with a sav- 
age gleam in his eyes. 

She turned upon him instantly with scorn and anger 
shining in her eyes. He met her gaze surlily and defiantly. 

“You could say that could you?” she said slowly and 
calmly. 

“I could and I do,” was the dogged answer. 

For a moment or two she stood between them without 
speaking. She was very pale and her lip trembled painfully; 
then drawing herself up she said. 

“Go down to the stream, both of you and wash your- 
selves. You are not fit for any one to see. Go before any- 
one comes this way. Oh! I am more ashamed of you than I 
can say.” 

They were both devoutly ashamed of themselves by this 
time, and taking their coats they slunk away to different cor- 
ners of the field and quickly plunged their faces into the 
clear stream that marked its boundary. 

Harry seemed little the worse. After he had washed 
himself Monica saw him leap lightly across the stream and 
make his way through the fields in the direction of Gray- 
stone village. Rupert, on the contrary, moved slowly and 
painfully, and when at length he returned to where she was 
still waiting, he cut but a sorry figure. 

Monica looked at him almost pityingly. He had been 
more punished than he knew. Harry’s blows had evidently 
told. ' 


A WOMAN INTERVENES. 


23 


“You seem to have got the worst of it,” she said, regard- 
ing him curiously. 

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” he answered with a poor at- 
tempt at a laugh. “I’ve given him what he won’t forget for 
a fortnight, and if you had not come up when you did I 
would have made mincemeat of him.” 

“Oh! would you?” she said, trying hard not to smile; “and 
what would he have made of you?” 

“Oh, nothing; I tell you he was absolutely winded when 
you came up.” 

“He seems to have recovered quickly,” she answered 
dryly. 

“He won’t recover so quickly next time,” was the surly 
reply. „ 

“Look here,” she said with a sudden flash in her eyes; 
“you began this quarrel, and you know it. What is more I 
know why, and let me tell you I will not have you or any- 
one else spying upon me. You are not my guardian and I 
resent your interference ” 

“But Monica ” he began. 

“Please wait till I have finished. I am no longer a child, 
as you have told me more than once lately. I am able to 
look after myself, and I will not be dictated to by you, at 
any rate, as to whom I shall speak to, or where I shall go. 
You have assumed a great deal too much lately, and I don’t 
like it, and what is more, if you pick another quarrel with 
Harry Morton, I’ll never speak to you again as long as I 
live.” 

“I’ll kill him,” he hissed savagely. 

“There’s not much fear of that,” was the reply. “How 
you had better get home as quickly as possible, and don’t 
attempt to show yourself for a week at least.” 

“And, why not?” he asked sullenly. 

“Because you are not fit to be seen. How take my ad- 
vice and get off home before anyone comes along.” 

“But Monica,” he pleaded suddenly changing his tone, 
“don’t be hard on a fellow. If I have seemed interfering, 
it is because of my reverence for you. You are young and 
quixotic and don’t know men as I know them. Believe me, 
Monica, that clown I thrashed just now is not a fit 
person for you to associate with in any way, or even to be seen 


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speaking to. There are certain things as you know that 
we cannot do with impunity? — ” 

“Such as trying to thrash somebody stronger than your- 
self, to wit.” 

“Don’t be cynical, Monica. You are angry with me I 
know, but some day you will discover that you have no 
truer friend than I — ” 

“I don’t like my friends to boast of what they are. I 
like to find out without being told.” 

“Can I do nothing to please you?” he said in low insin- 
uating tones, while an angry frown swept across his face. 

“Yes, you can please me by doing what I tell you, and 
by keeping out of mishief in the future.” 

For a moment he looked at her in silence, then raising 
his hat he walked slowly and painfully away. 

Monica returned to^G-raystone Hall in a very sober frame 
of mind. She had been awakened that afternoon as from a 
dream. The dream had been a pleasant one. She had 
known nothing of love or hate, fear or disappointment, strife 
or unrest. She had been as a butterfly in the sunshine and 
among the flowers. Now everything seemed changed. The 
dream was at an end. The reality was before her. 

She had listened to words from both Rupert and Harry 
that meant more than the ordinary commonplaces of conver- 
sation. But what did they mean? Why was Rupert so at- 
tentive, so solicitous, so anxious to shield her? Why did 
Harry say that if he could be sure of her friendship, noth- 
ing would seem too hard or painful?” 

“And a smile from you ■” he had said, and she had 

interrupted him. Why did he want her smile? Why did 
there come into his voice a different and a deeper tone? 

Then she caught her breath suddenly and a startled look 
came into her eyes. The truth was beginning to unfold itself. 

Lifq would never be the same for her again after that 
afternoon, and the day was not done yet. There was time 
for much more to happen before the sunset. 

When an hour later she saw the Vicar hurrying almost 
breathlessly up to the house, she felt as though mischief were 
brewing, and as the sequel showed, she was not mistaken. 


CHAPTER IV. 


IN THE TWILIGHT. 

ARRY had just sat down to a simple meal of dry- 
toast and stewed fruit when Lord Menheriot’s but- 
ler was espied coming up the garden path. A 
moment or two later a note was handed to him, 
which he opened instantly and flushed hotly as he read. 

Robert Morton looked up with an anxious and question- 
ing look in his eyes. Madge paused in the middle of pour- 
ing out a cup of tea. Dora and her Mother also looked curi- 
ously in Harry’s direction. Bob was the only one of the 
party who remained uninterested and unconcerned. 

“Lord Menheriot wants to see me this evening, that’s all,” 
Harry said, as he replaced the note in the envelope. He 
spoke quite calmly and with apparent unconcern; but Madge 
who shared most of his secrets was quick to notice that he 
was very considerably excited. 

“He gives no reason why he wishes to see you?” Robert 
Morton asked anxiously. 

“Hone whatever. He simply asks me to come up to the 
Hall this evening as he wishes to see me.” 

“Perhaps it is about the matter I referred to this morn- 
ing,” Robert said with a little sigh. 

To this Harry made no reply; but rose and went into the 
lobby where the butler was waiting for an answer. 

“Tell Lord Menheriot that I will come on in a few min- 
utes,” he said. 

“Yes, sir,” and that functionary at once took his departure. 

Five minutes later Harry was following him. He felt 
very stiff and sore about the chest and shoulders. Fortu- 
nately for him, his face bore very few signs of his encounter 
with Rupert Grant and no one in his home, except Madge, 
knew anything of his afternoon adventure. 

“Father will have to give up the hope that the Earl will 
ever do anything for me after this,” he reflected, as he hur- 
ried along the well-kept drive in the direction of the Hall. 



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He felt quite certain in his own mind why he had been 
sent for. Either the Vicar or Rupert himself had gone to 
Lord Menheriot with his version of the story. The most, 
no doubt, would be made of his accidental meeting with 
Monica. That his conduct would be painted in the black- 
est colors was a foregone conclusion. Most likely the inter- 
view would be a painful one. 

“At any rate I shall be glad to get it over as quickly 
as possible/’ he reflected. “It will be farewell to my pleas- 
ant little talks with Monica.” 

As he got near the house he noticed that she was stand- 
ing at one of the downstairs windows. Did she know he had 
been sent for? he wondered. Would ahe recognize him? A 
few minutes later this latter question was answered. She 
waved her hand to him and smiled. 

He raised his hat and passed on to the door and rang. 

“She is not so very angry with me after all,” he reflected, 
while waiting for the door to open. Then his brow clouded. 
“Better she were angry,” he thought bitterly. “Her very 
kindness encourages me to think of her when I ought to be 
doing my best to forget her. I’m a fool for letting my 
thoughts run in her direction at all.” 

Then the door was opened and he was ushered across 
the broad hall to Lord Menheriot’s private room. The door 
was thrown open at once; he heard his name announced, and 
the door closed behind him; but a swift glance about the 
room showed him that it’s owner was not present. The ser- 
vant had evidently taken it for granted that his master was 
within. Harry seated himself on the nearest chair and 
waited. It was not an apartment to overawe even the poor- 
est. The carpet was almost threadbare; the furniture was 
of the simplest; against the wall, not far from where he sat, 
was an open desk with any number of papers lying about. 
On the flap nearest him was a check book wide open. “The 
City Bank, Limited,” he could read the words quite distinctly. 
Opposite was a book case covering the whole side of the room. 

He took in all these details at a glance. Then the door 
opened and the Earl came hurriedly into the room. Harry 
rose to his feet at once, holding his hat in his hand. The 
Earl started visibly. “I beg pardon,” he said; “I did not 
know you were' here. Have you been waiting long?” 


IN THE TWILIGHT. 


27 


“Not five minutes at the outside” 

The Earl looked angry and turned to the desk muttering 
something about' a simpleton that ought to have known bet- 
ter. Then he swept up all the papers and shut the desk 
with an impatient gesture. 

He was a tall, good-looking man of about fifty-five. His 
hair and beard were iron gray; his eyes deep set and pene- 
trating; his nose straight and well formed; his mouth firm 
and determined. 

“Sit down,” he said, abruptly turning to Harry, and he 
went and took a chair directly opposite. 

Harry obeyed though not without misgiving. He saw 
that “my lord” was in an exceedingly bad temper, and so 
prepared himself for a warm time. 

Lord Menheriot was in no humor to beat about the bush. 

“The Vicar tells me,” he said abruptly, “that you have 
been behaving yourself in a very discreditable fashion lately.” 

“Indeed, my lord, may I ask in what way?” 

“Unfortunately, in various ways. The most recent ap- 
pears to be a case of assault and battery.” 

“You refer to my encounter with Mr. Rupert Grant?” 

“Encounter do you call it,” and the Earl laughed cyni- 
cally. “The Vicar calls it by a very different name. Be- 
cause Rupert spoke to you about behaving disrespectfully to 
my ward, you sprang upon him like a raging lunatic, and 
nearly battered the life out of him. The Vicar says he will 
not be fit to be seen for a month.” 

Harry smiled. “I cannot say I am sorry he has come off 
so badly,” he answered; “but with respect to the charge of 
treating Miss Stuart with disrespect, I think the lady her- 
self is most competent to answer that.” 

“Hm — yes — perhaps so. But proceed.” 

“I have only to add sir, that for the Vicar to say I sprang 
upon his son like a raging lunatic, is a perversion of the 
truth. He struck me first, and I own I have not grace 
enough yet to turn the other cheek.” 

“Oh, well! that is neither here nor there. If he struck 
the first blow, you gave him abundant provocation. Perhaps 
Monica is as much to blame as you, though in her case indis- 
cretion is excusable since she is scarcely more than a child 
in years; you are old enough to do what is right.” 


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“I am not aware that I have done otherwise,” Harry 
answered with spirit. 

“We are all prejudiced in our own favor doubtless,” the 
Earl answered cynically. “But I am bound to take Rupert’s 
point of view. Let us speak plainly. Rupert hopes some 
day that Monica will be his wife. I hope so too. It will 
be a most desirable arrangement from every point of view. 
Rupert will be master of Graystone if he lives, and who could 
preside in this house with more grace than Monica? But 
here is the difficulty; Monica shows no preference for him 
at present. In fact,, as far as I can see she would sooner 
be in your company than his. That of course is absurd. 
You see I am taking you fully into my confidence. I have 
always been interested in you; I am still. I encouraged your 
father to allow you to read for the bar. I have allowed you 
and Monica to be a good deal together. Foolishly perhaps, 
but the time is now past for that. You are not of the same 
walk in life. Yoh understand me?” 

“Quite.” 

“Very good. Monica’s friendliness and kindly feeling for 
you may not be without its danger from Rupert’s point of 
view. She is young, impulsive, not to say quixotic. It will 
be better therefore that the old condition of things ends at 
once.” 

“I understand.” 

“I am glad. Had it been anyone else, I should not have 
taken the trouble to explain things. I should have used 
more summary measures, but in a remote sense you have 
been a kind of protege of mine, and I shall be always in- 
terested in your success.” 

“Thank you, sir, I am sure I appreciate your kindness.” 

“And I may rely on your carrying out my wishes?” 

“After to-day, sir, you shall have no further cause of com- 
plaint,” and Harry bowed himself out of the room. 

The Earl took two or three turns about the room and 
'knitted his brows. 

“I’ve let the young dog off very easily,” he said to him- 
self; “much too easily. I meant to have spoken very sharply 
to him, but somehow his manner disarms me.” 

Harry went away congratulating himself. He had ex- 
pected a warm, time of it, especially when he found the mas- 


IN THE TWILIGHT. 


29 


ter of Graystone in such a bad temper. Nevertheless his sat- 
isfaction was mixed with a good deal of pain and disappoint- 
ment. Somehow Monica had become entwined in every hope 
and dream of his life, and to be denied the pleasure of an- 
other smile from her, to meet and pass without a word; to 
drift suddenly apart and become utter strangers, to lose for- 
ever the brightness and inspiration of her presence — well, to 
say the least, it was not a pleasant prospect to contemplate. 
Of course he had seen it coming for months and years, and 
was in some measure prepared for it; but no preparation or 
anticipation wall take all the sting out of loss or of calamity. 

He looked back at the windows as he was leaving, hop- 
ing for a last smile from Monica; but if she saw him leave 
it had grown too dark for him to see her. The long and 
glorious summer day was swiftly fading into night. A bat 
swooped down and nearly touched him; then suddenly veered 
off in another direction and vanished in the swiftly gathered 
gloom. A moment later a blind beetle boomed slowly past 
him, lost its way and struck the ground heavily. 

“Stupid beetle/’ he said to himself and smiled. Then a 
moment later, “I wonder if I am not quite as stupid and just 
as blind.” 

Down under the trees it was almost dark. Then a white 
figure came out of the shadow and stood before him. 

“Is that you, Harry?” 

“Monica!” and his heart gave a great hound. 

“I know there’s some kind of mischief hatching,” she 
said; “tell me all about it.” 

She stood close before him and he took her small white 
hands and held them in his. He had never done so before 
and he could not have tcld why he did so now. It was a 
sudden impulse, and she did not resent it. Her soft warm 
hands lay in his as if they had found a safe resting place. 
Yet the very next moment an uneasy, not to say guilty, feel- 
ing stole over him. 

“You ought not to have met me here, Monica,” he said. 
“Your guardian would be very angry if he knew.” 

“Very likely,” she answered; “but I can’t help that. Tell 
me wdiy he sent for you.” 

“It grew out of the affair of this afternoon,” fio said. 
“The Vicar has been to see him,” 


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TO PAY TEE PRICE . 


“Yes, I know; I saw him come .” 

“Well, he seems to have opened the Earl’s eyes to a few 
things. Anyhow I have promised not to be seen again in 
your company after to-day.” 

“But why Harry? Why this sudden right-about-face?” 

“For the very reasons I mentioned to you before. Your 
guardian seems to regret almost having made so much of 
me as he has done, and permitting me to have the. run of the 
grounds and in some measure of the house. You know, Mon- 
ica, he has been very good to me and has treated me as though 
I occupied a very different station.” 

“Yes, he has always thought a great deal of you. I have 
heard him speak in your praise many times, and that makes 
it all the more difficult to understand why he has turned 
against you now.” 

“I don’t think he has turned against me,' only he sees 
that we are no longer children, and you know that many 
things are allowable in children that would never be toler- 
ated when they grow up.” 

“Then I wish I had never grown up,” she said, hastily, 
and she stamped her little foot. “It seems so silly that when 
you are a child and can’t take care of yourself, you are 
allowed every liberty almost, and directly you are able to 
take care of yourself, you are treated as though you were an 
infant or an imbecile.” 

“There are proprieties you know,” he said “and even the 
rich and titled cannot afford to ignore Mrs. Grundy ■” 

“But what am I to do,” she said complainingly, “in this 
dull place? There is nobody except the Yicar’s wife that 
I am allowed to associate with, and she’s old enough to be 
my grandmother. Other girls can have any number of com- 
panions! but just because I’m an Earl’s ward, I’m shut up 
in a prison and not allowed to see anybody. I wish I was 
the daughter of a farmer or a shop-keeper. I do really.” 

“But you will go into society soon. Isn’t the Earl going 
to set up a town house next winter?” 

“He talks about it, but what of that? One can be just 
as lonely and dull in London as here.” 

“Oh, I don*t think you will be dull when you once get 
into the swing of surety. But you must not stay any longer, 
Monica, or you will be getting yourself into trouble,” 


IN THE TWILIGHT . 


31 


“And when we meet again ?” 

“We shall be strangers/’ he said. 

“You do not seem to mind very much/’ she answered still 
‘allowing her hands to nestle in his. 

“Not mind, Monica. Oh, please do not make it harder 
for me than it is. But I am older than you and perhaps 
realize more clearly the inevitable.” 

Something in his tone struck her and she looked search- 
ingly into his face. 

? “Then you are sorry,” she said after a pause, “that we 
are to be no longer friends?” 

“Sorry!” and he turned his head aside with an impatient 
movement. “Oh! but I shall get over it in time.” 

“Get over what, Harry?” she pleaded, looking earnestly 
into his eyes. 

“I cannot tell you, Monica. I really cannot.” 

“But you must tell me, Harry.” 

“No, no!” he cried in tones of real distress, “I cannot. 
It would he wrong to do so,” and he dropped her hands sud- 
denly and turned away. 

But she laid her hands quickly on his arm. 

“You must not go till you have told me,” she pleaded. 
“What can it matter? After to-night we are to be 
strangers you say, and shall not know each other when we 
meet.” 

“And is not that a sufficient reason of itself?” 

“No, it is not, and if you won’t tell me I shall know 
very well that you don’t care a bit.” 

“Oh, Monica, you drive me to desperation. Why should 
I put it into plain words? You must have guessed already. 
You are more to me than life, more than heaven itself. It 
will be worse th-an death to me to lose your smile. Oh, Mon- 
ica, Monica!” and his voice ended in a wail. 

She came close to him and stood for a moment looking 
up into his eyes; but it was almost too dark for her to see 
them. 

“Kiss me, Harry,” she said at length in a whisper. 

And in an ecstasy of passion he caught her in his arms 
and their lips met in one long and silent embrace. 

“And now farewell, Harry,” and he knew by her voice 
that she was weeping. 


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“Farewell, Monica,” and he watched her glide away in 
the darkness and vanish. 

For several minutes he stood staring into the empty night; 
then he turned and strode rapidly home. 

Robert Morton was waiting for him with a look of anx- 
ious expectation on his face. 

“Did he say anything about the money, Harry?” 

“Hot a word, Father.” 

Robert’s head drooped, but he said no more. Taking up 
a book he had been reading, he walked to his easy chair and 
sat down. 

So ended a. day that was a herald of a painful to-morrow. 
Yet no one guessed what the new day would bring. Com- 
ing events did not cast their shadows before. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE HOUR OF TEMPTATION. 

E OBERT MORT'OH got up early the next morning as 
was his custom, and after sunning himself for some 
time in the garden, went to meet the postman 
whom he saw coming along the lane. He was still 
worrying himself about his creditors — the result of being 
worried by them. 

“I have only one letter for you to-day, Mr. Morton,” the 
postman said with a good humored smile, and he pulled the 
letter out of his bundle, handed it to the schoolmaster and 
passed on. 

“Thanks,” Robert replied with a poor attempt to return 
the postman’s smile, as he tore open the envelope. 

He read the letter slowly with a clouded face; read it a 
second time with still deeper frown; then crumpling it in his 
hand he leaned his elbows on the gate and looked across the 
field where severaEcows were, standing in the lush grass wait- 
ing to be milked. 

He saw nothing however; one sentence in the letter he had 
just read was slowly burning its way into his brain. 

“If this account is not settled within 4S. hours of date 
hereof, legal action will be at once taken.” 

Robert Morton owed a hundred and fifteen pounds alto- 
gether, and for any ability to pay, he might just as well have 
owed a hundred and fifteen thousand. He had not twenty 
pounds of available cash in the world. Legal action meant be.~ 
ing sold up. That to a man in his position meant , loss of 
everything — loss of home; loss of self-respect; loss of position; 
loss of reputation. 

Being a pessimistic soul, he naturally looked on the dark- 
est side of the picture. He saw himself drifting down and 
down in the social scale, sinking lower and lower year by year; 
getting shabbier and shabbier from sheer inability to dress re- 
spectably; becoming perhaps — who could tell? — a sandwich 
man, and dying at last in a casual ward. 


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There had been such cases; hundreds of them. Deserving 
people, too. Men who tried to be honest, and found that it 
led them down into the gutter. 

Robert’s heart grew bitter as he pictured the possibilities 
of the future. Faith, he had none, nor was his moral fiber of 
the toughest kind. He had been honest hitherto; not from 
any overmastering moral impulse, but because he believed 
that in the main honesty was the best policy. He would have 
argued that no man should play the rogue unless he were 
morally certain of not being 'found out. At heart he was an 
opportunist. He was what he was because he had never had 
a chance of being anything else. But all this talk about 
truth for its own sake, and honesty for the sake of honesty, 
he had no sympathy with. 

The question for him, however, was, what was to be done? 
He couldn’t steal. There was no opportunity for successful 
theft in Graystone. He could not remain inactive, for if he 
did, in a week or two at the outside he would be houseless and 
homeless. He could not borrow. Even money-lenders would 
hesitate to advance him a hundred and fifteen pounds, and 
even if they would, he had sense to see that it would be a 
case of out of the frying pan into the fire. Should he beg? 

Lord Menheriot had encouraged him to run into debt; nay, 
he had done more. He had promised him pecuniary aid. 
Why not go to him and put the case plainly before him. He 
had waited and waited hoping that Lord Menheriot would re- 
member his promise without any reminder from him. But 
he had not remembered; apparently he had allowed the matter 
to slip completely out of his mind. 

It was a delicate thing to do, no doubt. He shrank from 
the task with a feeling that amounted almost to dread; for- 
Robert Morton was a proud man — poor men usually are. But 
extreme cases require extreme treatment. It was the only 
course open to him. The Farl might resent his appeal of 
course — most likely he would. There were few things that 
even rich people objected to so much as being asked for 
money. 

Robert Morton tightened his fingers over the letter. 

“I must do it,” he said to himself with emphasis, “and I 
must do it at once. And if it fails — well the deluge,” and he 
smiled sardonically. 


THE HOUR OF TEMPTATION. 


35 


A few minutes la'ter the sound of horse’s hoofs fell on his 
ears. “Who comes galloping here, I wonder/’ he said, turn- 
ing his head quickly. “Someone in a great hurry evidently.” 

“Why it is Sam,” Robert said to himself. “I wonder 
what’s up at the Hall. 

The groom, seeing the schoolmaster, pulled up. 

“I say, Mr. Morton,” he called, “you’d better go up to the 
house. The governor’s had a fit or some’at of the kind. I’m 
off for the doctor.” 

“You mean Lord Menheriot?” 

“In course I do. Who else should I mean? I tell thee 
he’s been tuck with a stroke and it’s a bad case too,” and dig- 
ging his heels into the horse he galloped away. 

Robert stood staring after him in open-eyed misery and 
amazement. Had there been an earthquake, he could not 
have felt more alarmed or dismayed. The last blow had been 
struck. The absolutely worst had come. In his most despair- 
ing moments, there had always been a lingering hope that 
Lord Menheriot would not let him sink, especially since the 
debts had been incurred on Harry’s account; but now even 
that hope was taken away. 

He could not go and worry a sick man about money, and 
before he got well again, if he ever did get well, the avalanche 
would have fallen. 

He turned back at length and entered his house. The 
others were just sitting down to breakfast, and were wonder- 
ing what had become of him. His white, anguished face told/ 
them in a moment that something had happened. 

“Are you not well, father?” Madge asked. 

“Yes I am as well as usual,” he answered in dolorous 
tones, “but I’ve just heard that the Earl has been taken sud- 
denly ill; had a stroke or a fit or something of the kind. Did' 
you not see Sam riding past?” 

“Ho.” 

“Well he’s gone off for the doctor. He pulled up to tell 
me. I’ll not stay to breakfast. He thinks I may be of some 
use at the Hall. If I don’t turn up in time for school, Harry, 
you go down and take my place.” 

“All right, father.” 

“I hope it is not so bad as Sam thinks,” and Robert 
hurried away. 


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At the Hall he was shown as usual into the study. 

“I will tell Miss Monica” (they never called her Miss 
Stuart), the servant said, “that you are here. I have no doubt 
she will see you as soon as possible,” and closed the door be- 
hind him. 

A few moments later Monica came noiselessly into the 
room. She was very pale, and her eyes looked as if she had 
been weeping; -but she was quite calm and collected. 

“It is very good of you to come, Mr. Morton,” she said 
shaking hands with him. “Will you stay awhile at least till 
the doctor comes? It will be a comfort to feel that there is 
someone besides the servants In the house.” 

“I will stay as long as you wish/* he said warmly, “and if 
there is anything I can do I shall be only too glad to do it.** 

“It is very kind of you: I really do not know what is 
needed yet. We have only just succeeded in getting him into 
bed. It has been a difficult task.” 

“Where was he taken and how?** Robert asked sympa- 
thetically. 

“He was in this room Mr. Morton. I believe he was sit- 
ting at his desk writing letters. Perkins was passing and 
heard a groan and a noise as though a great weight had fallen, 
and being alarmed he knocked at the door and getting no 
response, he opened it and entered and found him lying on 
the floor like one dead, and indeed we all thought he was 
dead at first.** 

^And has he recovered consciousness?’* 

“Ho, Mr. Morton, he has scarcely even spoken since.” 

Then a knock came to the door and a voice whispered, 
“The doctor. Miss Monica.” 

“Excuse me for a while, Mr. Morton,** she said with a 
pathetic smile. “I will come back as soon as I can and. let 
you know what the doctor thinks.** 

Robert felt too restless to remain still, so he began to 
pace up and down the room. At length he paused before the 
desk. It was partially open and well within sight was' the 
Earl’s check book. 

A cold sweat broke out all over him, and a mist came up 
before his eyes. He felt for a moment as though he were 
going to faint, and staggering to a chair he sat down. 

The faintness passed away after a few moments, but his 


THE HOUR OF TEMPTATION. 


37 


hands trembled as though he had been smitten with palsy. 
He knew that the supreme moment of his life had come: a 
moment that would tax him to the utmost, and decide for 
good or ill all the unexplored future. 

It was a chance in ten thousand, an opportunity that never 
came to a man twice in a lifetime.* It had come also at the 
supreme moment, and if he missed it or flung it away he 
would deserve never to have another stroke of luck to the 
end of his days. So he said to himself. He took a step 
towards the desk and reached out his hand. To tear out a 
blank check, counterfoil and all, would be the easiest thing 
in the , world. To copy Lord Menheriot’s signature would 
not be much more difficult. His skill in penmanship was 
one of his greatest- gifts. He had copied the Earl’s signature 
scores of times for the mere fun of it. The big sprawling 
“M” at the beginning, the clumsy “h” in the middlej and 
the final flourish with the “t” at the end were all as familiar 
to him as his own signature. Yes, he could do it without the 
least difficulty, and he would. It was his last chance. It 
w r as a spar flung to him in a raging surf. If he did not seize 
it, he would sink and perish. 

But before his hand could reach the book something . 
seemed to whisper, “You have lived honestly till now; be 
faithful to the end,” and once more the mist came up before 
his eyes and the faintness came over him, and staggering back 
to the chair he sat down again. 

Conscience was not dead yet. His moral sense was more 
alert than he knew. He fancied that he had shed all his 
religious beliefs as a tree sheds its leaves in winter, and that 
he had long since reasoned conscience out of existence. Now 
in a moment all the specters of an early belief started up in 
front of him; a thousand memories of an earlier and happier 
time came trooping back. 

“What slaves we all are!” he said to himself impatiently, 
when he had steadied himself a little. “How our habits bind 
us in spite of everything, and the fears of our childhood fol- 
low us into mature life. But am I to be ruled by a fad, a 
superstition, a bit of priestly quackery? Never.” 

And he started to his feet again; then a step in the Hall 
arrested him and a cold sweat broke out over him once more, 
He sat down a third time and the step passed on. 


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‘Tm worse than a baby/’ he muttered under his breath. 
“Ah! but I understand I’ve had no breakfast; that’s the reason 
I feel so faint/’ and he wiped his damp forehead with his 
pocket handkerchief. “Conscience after all is a question of 
food or want of it.” 

But he was unable to blind his moral vision by any dust- 
throwing. F’aith is not of reason. Its roots lie deeper. Re- 
ligion is not a matter of education; it is an instinct. Robert 
Morton imagined that it was something that might be put on 
or taken off as we don or discard a garment. But in the hour 
of moral peril he discovered his mistake. It was of the very 
stuff out of which his life had been woven. 

So finding his moral sense could not be strangled he be- 
gan to reason with it. 

“I have a right to the money” he said to himself. “He 
promised to meet any liabilities incurred on Harry’s account, 
and as now he is unable to draw the check himself, what 
wrong can there be in my doing it for him.” 

“But it would be forgery,” something within him urged, 
“and might be discovered.” 

“If the Earl dies that is practically impossible. Who is 
to find it out?” 

“But he may get better.” 

“And if he does, the chances are he will never discover it. 
But if the worst should come to the worst, I can see clearly 
enough how I can escape.” 

“But somebody else would have to suffer very likely.” 

“I can’t help that. It is the way of the world. If one 
man gains the other loses. Gain in nearly everything, is built 
on loss somewhere. If I buy cheap, someone sells at a loss. 
What is good for me is disaster for him. That can’t be 
helped; we must all take our chances; there’s no good without 
its compensating evil. Fortunes on the stock exchange mean 
misfortune to crowds of nameless people. The wealth of 
publicans and brewers is won — ah I’m wasting time,” and he 
sprang to his feet again. He came close to the desk and 
listened, no one was stirring outside. He stole on tip toe to 
the door and opened it. He stepped out into the hall. The 
house might have been deserted, no one was about. 

He came back and closed the door, then walked to the 
TOidow; no one was on the outside. He was feeling very 


THE HOUR OF TEMPTATION. 


30 


strange and nerveless. It was a new part to play and in spite 
of his sophistry he shrank from it. Theft and forgery were 
ugly words. Had he not lowered himself and weakened him- 
self even by the contemplation of such a crime? And he had 
always borne a blameless reputation. 

He turned away from the window and approached the 
desk again. All the faintness had passed away, his brain was 
working swiftly. 

“And if I don’t,” he muttered to himself, “in two days the 
bailiffs will be in the house, and I shall be sold up; shall lose 
my situation; shall be sent adrift upon the world; shall sink 
down into poverty and' want — perhaps to vulgar crime and a 
shameful end,” and he shuddered. 

“This business is risky, I know,” he went on, “and in the 
eye of the law is considered a big offense. But it is no worse 
than a gamble on the stock exchange, nor yet so bad. I’ll do 
it and take my chance. The result can be no worse than, 
than — if I don’t. It’s a speculation and I must risk it.” He 
reached out his hand and drew forth the check book. The 
last leaf would come out easily. He began to tear it. 

“Good heavens was that a step,” no he was safe yet. 
“Tearing a leaf out is noBforgery,” he muttered to himself. 
How the leaf was clean out, and left no sign of being removed. 

He quickly returned the check* book to its place and then 
stole back to his chair. The cold perspiration stood in great 
beads upon his forehead; his lips were ashen. 

He folded the check carefully across the center, and placed 
it in his pocket book; then he drew out his handkerchief and 
wiped his forehead again. 

An awful sense of guilt and shame stole over him. He 
doubted if he were awake; it all seemed like some horrid 
dream. He raised his fingers to his eyes and rubbed them; 
then stared out of the window. There was no doubt about 
his being awake; no doubt about his having taken the first 
step on the road to a great crime. 

“But I have not forged the Earl’s name yet,” he reflected, 
while a ghastly smile stole over his face. 

The next moment the door opened and Monica came into 
the room. 

“The doctor gives no hope at all,” she said; “he thinks 
he will never recover consciousness again.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


CROSSING THE RUBICON. 

HE Vicar arrived at the Hall close on the heels of 
the schoolmaster, and went at once to the sick 
room. He asked no one’s permission. Why should 
he? He was the sick man’s nearest relative and 
heir to the Graystone estate. Moreover he was his spiritual 
adviser. Hence his proper place was by the stricken man’s 
side. Poor Lady Menheriot could not be considered. 

Fortunately perhaps, Lord Menheriot' was quite uncon- 
scious, and so did not see the peculiar look of triumph in his 
relative’s eyes. The Vicar tried to look distressed. He blew 
his nose violently several times.. He had great difficulty in 
reading the prayers suitable to the occasion, so overcome was 
he with emotion. But all the while there crept into his 
heart little thrills of exultation. He could not forget that he 
was next of kin, and that in case the Earl died, Graystone 
would be his; that he would be equal to the Bishop; that he 
would have a seat in the". House of Lords, that he would be 
“The Rev. Earl of Menheriot,” and that — almost for the first 
time in his life — he would be in easy financial circumstances. 

It is not surprising, therefore, that his eyes should betray 
his triumph, and that a certain air of importance should steal 
into his manner that no one had ever noticed before. 

Many people foolishly assume that a clergyman ought to 
feel differently and think differntly and act differently from 
other men, that when he exchanges check for broadcloth, a 
bowler for a wide-awake, and a colored scarf for a white neck- 
tie, he ought to change at the same time his nature and tem- 
perament and disposition, and indeed not a few people appear 
to be under the delusion that he does so; that in becoming a* 
clergyman he ceases to be a man, and that consequently he is 
not swayed and governed by the motives and passions that 
move other men. 

The Rev. Melville Grant was a fair average type of Eng- 
lishman. He was energetic even to fussiness, zealous to the 



CROSSING THE RUBICON. 


41 


verge of bigotry, and so loyal to bis own church that charity 
towards others had not much room to grow and flourish. 

He had been so poor all his life that money had an exag- 
gerated value in his eyes, and so closely related to the aristoc- 
racy that he regarded the democracy as the residuum^-an in- 
ferior breed, a necessary evil. He was not a bad-hearted man, 
nor unreasonably selfish — perhaps no more selfish than you 
or I, dear reader. It would be easy, of' course, to point out 
faults in his character. Let him who is without fault under- 
take the task. 

Robert Morton was on the point of leaving when the Vicar 
came suddenly into the room. There was an air of authority 
in his manner already. He was quickly feeling his way to the 
dignity of his position. He looked at ’the sphoqlmaster and 
frowned; then bowed in his most frigid manner. 

“I am afraid my dear,” he said turning to: Monica; ‘That 
it is nearly all over with your guardian.. The • doctor thinks 
he ; cannot. live; many hours but. we Tiave wired for a London 
specialist. Everything must be done that can be.done.” 

Monica bowed her head in reply, and then stole quickly 
out of the room. 

The Vicar’s sympathetic manner departed directly the 
door closed.. He had never liked Robert Morton. He knew 
that at heart he was an unbeliever; that he came to church 
only because he was compelled to do so, and played the hypo- 
crite merely to keep his situation. Had he given himself time 
to think about the matter, he might have, discovered that 
Robert Morton was not a solitary example; that there were 
hundreds of schoolmasters in the country forced into the 
same false and hateful position, that attendance at the parish 
church was a sine qua non, and that any hint of dislike or 
dissent would jeopardize their bread and cheese. 

The Vicar faced the schoolmaster ^directly Monica left... 

“I fear this will make a great difference to your position,” 
he said, and his voice was hard and cold. 

Robert Morton was quick to. detect the tone and resent it. 

“I believe the Earl is not dead yet,” he replied. 

The Vicar winced and his face became scarlet. 

“I consider that a most insolent remark,” he replied. 

“Indeed! I fail to see where the insolence comes -in.” 

“That is where people of your class always fail,” was the 


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TO PAY THE PRICE. 


cutting reply. “It takes several generations to evolve a gen- 
tleman/’ 

“Indeed! Then I fear there is not much hope for your 
son.” 

The Vicar stared at him aghast, while his eyes blazed with 
passion. He made an effort to speak, but his anger choked 
his utterance. Never before had he been so insulted. 

Fortunately his dignity at length came to his rescue. He 
remembered where he was; he remembered too that he began 
the quarrel. Nevertheless a prospective Earl, even though he 
was a clergyman, could not be expected to bear insult in 
silence. 

“I think Mr. Robert Morton,” he said at length with slow 
and pointed emphasis, “that the less you and I see of each 
other the better it will be. You quite understand that you 
and I never had and never can have anything in common, 
and in case Lord Menheriot’s illness should prove fatal, you 
might do worse than bear the fact in mind. In fact it might 
be to our mutual advantage if you and your brutal and pugil- 
istic son could find situations somewhere else.” 

“My brutal and pugilistic son,” said Robert glaring at 
him; “pray what do you mean?” 

“Is it possible that you have not heard what took place 
yesterday afternoon ?” 

“I have heard nothing.” 

-“Then let me tell you that because my son attempted to 
rescue Miss Stuart from his objectionable attentions, he 
turned upon him — that is upon my son — like an infuriated 
tiger, and so, catching him unawares, battered him in a most 
shameful fashion.” 

Robert Morton smiled. “Harry is not of the quarrelsome 
sort,” he answered, “and I am glad to hear he has been able 
to give a good account of himself.” 

“You are glad?” the Vicar questioned, aghast. 

“Yes, I am glad. I have no doubt your son began the 
quarrel yesterday, as you have begun it to-day. You think 
that because our social position is inferior to yours, we must 
meekly pocket every insult that you choose to* fling at us.” 

The Vicar had quite recovered himself by this time, and 
with a pitying smile and a lofty toss of the head, he walked 
out of the room. 


CROSSING TEE RUBICON. 


43 


Robert returned to his home in a curiously agitated con- 
dition. Mentally and morally he felt adrift on an open sea. 
He had not only lost his moorings, but he had lost his bear- 
ings. 

“Fve played the fool with the Vicar; that’s a dead cer- 
tainty/’ he said to himself. “I might as well have kept silent. 
I’ve done no good by angering him, and I’ve made him my 
open and avowed enemy. If the Earl dies, he’ll shift me and 
that pretty quickly.” 

Then his thoughts returned again to the blank check in 
his pocket book. But he felt curiously like a man in a dream; 
nothing seemed real to him. He was being hurried to and 
fro by forces over which he had no control. His will power 
had seemingly ail evaporated. He hardly knew if he were 
himself or some other man. 

The stress and shock of circumstances had for the mo- 
ment completely unhinged him. The threat of his creditors, 
the sudden illness of the Earl, the tempting check book, the 
altercation with the Vicar, the uncertain tenure of his liveli- 
hood, all impelled him in the same direction. 

The only thing that seemed clear to him was that he was 
standing on the brink of ruin with only one possible chance 
of escape. Of course that might mean ruin also; but there 
was strong probability that it would not. If what he pro- 
posed was evil, well, he was doing evil that good might come. 
But he was neither in the mental nor moral condition to dis- 
tinguish clearly what was evil and what was not. He was 
completely adrift. 

It was in this mood he entered his house. Bob had gone 
to school with Harry, Madge bad gone to a distant farm 
house to give music lessons. Dora and her mother were in 
the kitchen. 

Mrs. Morton came out at the sound of her husband’s foot- 
steps wiping her hands. 

“Is the Earl any better?” she asked anxiously. 

“Ho, he has never recovered consciousness. The doctor 
thinks he cannot last many hours.” 

She sat down suddenly and looked with a pained expres- 
sion out of the window. She saw in a moment what the 
death of the Earl might mean to them. 

“Still it might be worse,” he went on with an attempt at 


44 


TO PAY TEE PRICE. 


cheerfulness. “The presence of Harry last evening appears 
to have reminded him of his promise.” 

“And you have — ■” 

“Don’t breath a syllable/’ he interrupted, “to any living 
soul. Not a syllable. The Vicar is assuming proprietorship 
already. I know you can keep your mouth shut.” 

“I think so/’ she answered with a wan smile, and she rose 
and returned to the kitchen. 

Robert retired to the little parlor which he used mainly 
as his study. 

He had taken another step, and every step made retreat 
more difficult. He sat down at his desk and pulled out his 
pocket book with the blank check. (For a long time he 
looked at it as if undecided what to do. 

But the devil kept hounding him on, and he had not 
strength to resist. No man, with impunity, can play fast 
and loose with his convictions. To make light of honor and 
righteousness, even in thought, bears its penalty in moral 
deterioration. Robert Morton had been for years loosing 
his moorings and now in the storm he was helpless. Had 
the temptation never come to him he might have walked in 
outward honesty to the end of the chapter. But is not 
that true of all of us? We are honest till we are tempted 
beyond our strength. 

Harry looked up eagerly when he saw Robert enter the 
school. 

“Is the Earl better?” he asked in an undertone. 

“No, lie is not expected to live the day out.” 

“It will make a difference to us,” he said absently,' and he 
thought of Monica while he spoke. 

“Yes it will make a great difference,” Robert an- 
swered; “but I am glad to say he remembered his promise 
after you left him last night, and handsomely too.” 

“Indeed?” 

“Yes, he left his check on the desk for me. He might 
have known something was going to happen.” 

Robert wa's quite glib with his story. Fie was surprised 
to find with what ease he lied. But lying is always easy to 
the man who surrenders his honor, just as lying is always 
necessary in such a case. It matters not what wrong a 
man commits, he will have to lie before the day is out in 


CROSSING THE RUBICON. 45 

order to hide it. Lying is the poor and pervious refuge of 
all evil doers. 

Eobert took out his pocket book, and showed the check 
to Harry. 

The latter glanced at it for a moment and raised his 
eyebrows. "But how do you know it is for you?” 'he asked. 
"It is simply payable to bearer.” 

"The envelope was addressed to me,” Eobert answered 
in a moment. 

"It is a very handsome amount,” Harry said looking 
grave; "but I would rather we did not use it.” 

"That may be,” Eobert answered mildly, "but look at 
this,” and he handed him the crumpled letter that he had 
received that morning. 

Harry gave a low whistle and looked thoughtful.” I did 
not know things were as bad as that,” he said after a pause. 

"I have given you pretty broad hints more than once,” 
Eobert answered with a melancholy smile; "but I suppose it 
is of the nature of youth to think lightly of difficulties.” 

"Of some difficulties perhaps,” Harry answered gloomily, 
and he thought again of Monica. 

"How,” said Eobert, "I want you to go to town by the 
next train. You will get to King’s Cross by one o'clock, so 
that you will have plenty of time before the bank closes. 
However go direct to the bank and get the check cashed, and 
then run round and settle all the accounts; you can be back 
again by tea time easily if you like.” 

"I would much rather you did this matter yourself,” 
Harry said uneasily. "The cashier at the bank will think 
I’ve stolen the check.” 

"He’ll think nothing of the kind,” Eobert said hastily. 
"Do you think the men who are passing thousands through 
their hands every day will think twice about such a paltry 
amount as this?” 

"To me £250 seems a very large sum.” 

Eobert smiled again. He had grown quite cheerful. "I 
would go myself,” he said, "only I may be wanted at the 
Hall. Miss Monica -said it was quite a relief to her to have 
me near.” 

"Is she very much distressed?” Harry asked quickly. 

"I think so. Her eyes looked very troubled; but she is 


46 


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quite calm and self-possessed. How quickly she has grown 
into a woman. It seems only yesterday that she was a mere 
child. But you would better be getting ready, Harry, or you 
will miss the train.” 

Harry did not raise any further objection. Apart from 
having to cash the check he would enjoy a day in London. 
Graystone was a sleepy little village at best, and would be 
perfectly intolerable without a sight of . Monica now and 
then. The beauty of London was, it was never sleepy. Wet 
or dry, summer or winter, it was always alert, active, open- 
eyed. 

He had no thought of danger. That the man he called his 
father was deliberately laying a snare for him never came 
within the circle of his imagination. He walked with a 
light heart to the station through the summer sunshine, 
humming an old love song as he went. 


CHAPTER VII. 


TO LONDON TOWN. 

for skin, all that a man hath will he give for 
life.” So the devil is reported to have said on 
istoric occasion. Whether the remark was origi- 
or only a quotation, we are not told. In the 
absence of quotation marks, however, and in view of the 
fact that his Satanic majesty has been frequently represented 
as more or less of a philosopher, we may give him credit for 
this particular fragment of Scripture. Also it may be noted 
that on occasion even the devil may speak the truth, for truth 
it undoubtedly is. 

It is a little disconcerting to discover how selfish and 
cowardly, and even cruel men become directly their personal 
safety is threatened. 

Robert Morton was not a cruel man in the ordinary 
acceptation of the word. He believed that Harry would run 
but an infinitesimal risk in cashing the check. That there 
was a slight risk he saw from the first, and in order to 
screen himself in case of accident, he sent Harry on the 
errand. 

He would deeply grieve, of course, if his scheme should 
fail, for he was fond of his nephew and had even made sac- 
rifices for his advancement, but he was fonder of himself. He 
would give Harry’s sldn in preference to his own. 

Harry was not unsociable; but like most English men 
when traveling by rail, he preferred his own company to that 
of anyone else. Finding himself in an empty compartment, 
he secretly rejoiced, and sincerely hoped that no one would 
come to disturb his meditations during the journey. For the 
first few minutes he employed himself in scanning the pages 
of the “Daily Telegraph,” 1 which was the only paper to be 
purchased at the tiny bookstall. But he quickly grew tired 
of this, and pushing his head back into a comer of the com- 
partment he gave himself up to day dreams. 

$ince his meeting with Monica the evening before in the 




48 


TO PAY THE PRICE . 


clim twilight, she had scarcely been out of his thoughts, 
for even in his dreams she was never absent, while the 
memory of that kiss tilled him with unspeakable ecstasy, and 
he believed would remain with him to the last moment of 
his life. He believed it meant more than a girlish fancy, 
something deeper than mere friendship. 

Of course had she been less a child of nature and more a 
woman of the w^orld, had she lived in the whirl of London 
society instead of in the quiet of Graystone; had she mixed 
with her equals instead of running wild with him in the 
Park and lanes, she would not have repealed her heart so 
freely; but just because she was unspoiled by the world and 
simple and ingenuous as youth should always be, she had 
given him freely a glimpse of the truth, and he believed that 
but for the deep gulf of caste he might win her hand with- 
out difficulty. 

But young as she wa.s it was clear from her simple 
farewell that she recognized the inevitableness of the bar- 
rier that divided them. The kiss was not merely a token 
of affection, it was also the symbol of farewell. In the 
future they would go their separate ways; now and then 
perhaps they would cross each other’s path; but they would 
meet and part merely as strangers. The old, happy inter- 
course was at an end forever. 

But youth, generally speaking, finds it difficult to believe 
that anything is inevitable, and Harry, in spite of his logic, 
found himself dreaming dreams and building castles in all of 
which Monica had a place. 

He picked up his newspaper and began to read a brief 
obituary notice of a great man who had just died. The story 
■ of his life was very simple and yet wonderfully romantic. 
He had begun as a poor boy in a London slum, and had 
gradually worked his way step by step until he reached, not 
merely wealth, but honor and renown, and had left behind 
him a name that would be remembered in history for gener- 
ations to come. 

Harry read the brief story" with a kind of fascination; it 
had a lesson for him and a message; it breathed into his 
heart, a new hope. What might not he accomplish if he 
tried? The world was before him as it was before others. 
There was always a chance even for. the humblest. Knowl- 


TO LONDON TOWN. 


49 


edge unfolded her ample page to the gaze of the poorest 
lad; the highest walks of life were not barred to any, and if 
others through toil and struggle had won their way to renown, 
why might not he? And if he could win a position of honor, 
then even Monica would come within his reach. 

He began to run .over the names of the Q. C.’s who 
occupied high positions in the social and political world, and 
he discovered that not a few of them were the sons of hum- 
ble parents; but they had worked hard and patiently, had 
bided their time, had taken the tide at the flood and had 
been carried on to fortune. 

“What is there to hinder me doing the same?” he said 
to himself, and he closed his eyes and smiled. 

The train was bearing him on through lovely scenery; 
the fields were swept with living green; the woods were glori- 
ous in their summer dress, while the sunshine flooded the 
land and glorified everything. But he did not notice the 
scenery; a mental picture was before him more beautiful than 
anything that nature could offer. 

It was not until the train ran through Barnet that Harry 
awoke from his dreams. The atmosphere of London began 
to affect him even at this stage. London, the metropolis of 
the world. Its very name moved him strangely. 

On reaching King's Cross he made his way along the 
underground passage to the Metropolitan station and pur- 
chased a ticket for Moorgate. street. He hated the smoky, 
underground journey; but it was the quickest way to his des- 
tination. It was also inexpensive, and that was a prime con- 
sideration. When he got out at Moorgate street he hurried 
as rapidly as possible in the direction of the bank, and in 
a few minutes felt the throb, of London life all about him. 

It was not necessary that he should go to the corner of 
Prince’s street; but he loved to see the crowd in front of the 
Exchange. There was something exhilarating in the bewil- 
dering kaleidoscope of cabs and busses and wagons and lur- 
ries seemingly mixed up in inextricable confusion. There was 
no other part of London that moved him so deeply, no other 
place in the world perhaps where the tide of human life 
surged as it did at that point. It gave to' him a sense of 
exhilaration, he felt as though he were being braced up by 
a strong North wind. 


50 


TO PAY THE PRICE. 


He did not remain many minutes however; he was anxious 
to get to the bank and have the check cashed. It happened 
to be the busiest time of the ‘day; the counter was so thronged 
that he had to wait his turn before he could get near it; 
the cashiers were so busy that they had no time to notice 
him. Money was being taken in and given out with a rapidity 
that almost amazed him. Sovereigns' were scooped out into 
scales and weighed and handed over to mere youths who 
packed them into bags and hurried away into the busy 
streets. It was all new to him and intensely fascinating. It 
gave him a fresh idea of the greatness of England’s commer- 
cial life. What was being done in one bank was being done 
in a hundred others at that moment. What wealth there was 
in this great city; how the notes passed and repassed repre- 
senting untold thousands. His small check indeed seemed as 
a drop in the bucket and scarcely that. 

He caught a glimpse of one bank note for £1,000. It 
was the first time he had ever seen a note for that amount, 
and he looked at it with wonder. It would be something to 
talk about to Dora and Madge when he got home. 

The cashier took the check and scrutinized it carefully; 
then looked up and as carefully scrutinized him. It seemed, 
however, to be quite in order. For a moment he disappeared 
behind a partition, then he came back again and asked how 
he would take the money. 

“In £ 5 notes, if you please,” Harry replied. 

Instantly a bundle of fresh, clean Bank of England notes 
were lifted from a drawer and the amount carefully counted; 
turned over and counted a second time, each note being given 
a little jerk as it was turned over. Harry watched with in- 
tense curiosity the operation; it w r as so swift, so deft, so 
neatly and carefully done, that he wondered how long the 
young man behind the counter had been practicing that kind 
of thing before he had reached such perfection. 

A moment later the fifty-crisp, clean notes were handed 
to him. Folding them carefully he put them into his pocket 
book and let the elastic strap tighten round them. This he 
placed in the inner pocket of his coat, buttoned it over his 
chest, and with a sigh of’ relief went out again into the 
crowded street, and was soon lost in the multitude surging 
round him. 


TO LONDON TOWN. 


n 


His next business was to hunt up his father’s creditors 
and so get rid of some of his cash. First in Meet street, then 
into Chancery Lane, then into Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then 
back into the Strand and finally into Piccadily. Five credi- 
tor in all. 

In front of the Mansion House he climbed on to a bus 
going westward. From the bank to Chancery Lane for a 
penny, it was surely the cheapest ride in the world, and the 
most exhilarating. He managed to get a front seat and 
watched not without admiration the driver’s skill and even 
temerity. How and then he almost held his breath and won- 
dered that the driver did not pull up or put on the brake. He 
held the rail tightly in readiness for a collision; he expected 
every moment that the wheels would get locked with the 
wdieels of some other vehicle; but somehow they seemed to 
escape even though it was but a hair’s breadth. 

At length St. Paul’s came into sight with its grey, stained 
walls, its dark and massive dome and its golden cross high 
above the -smoke gleaming in the sunshine. The Londoners 
did not notice it; they saw it so often that it failed any longer 
to impress them — familiarity had bred contempt. But he, 
fresh from the country, gazed on it with reverent wonder and 
admiration. It was so colossal, so symmetrical, so noble in its 
proportions, so high and lifted up above all the surrounding 
buildings, so splendid in its conception as well as in its exe- 
cution, that it held him with a spell. He was sorry that the 
bus hurried him on for he would fain have looked upon it a 
longer time and drunk in more of the spirit it inspired. 

He found his father’s creditor’s exceedingly agreeable and 
polite. When they discovered that the account was to be 
settled in full, they beamed with smiles in a moment. One 
or two even apologized for the strong letters they had sent; 
but, of course, they explained business was business, and as 
they had large obligations to meet, they expected their debt- 
ors would pay their bills as soon as they were due. But to 
show that they had no ill feeling, and to prove that they 
had perfect faith in Mr. Morton’s honesty and even capability 
of paying they were quite prepared to grant further credit 
if required. 

Harry explained that he was not commissioned to enter 
into any fresh obligations; he was simply sent by his father 


62 


TO PAT THE PRlCfl. 


to pay the hill and very thankful he was when the last 
creditor had been seen and the last account settled. 

By this time he began to feel very hungry so he betook 
himself to Gatti’s Restaurant in the Strand, where he enjoyed 
what he called a square meal to the full. After his lunch he 
spent an hour in the, National Gallery and another hour in 
looking at the shop windows, which, on the whole, he en- 
joyed more than looking at the works of the old masters. 
Then he made his way again to King’s Cross and took the 
train back to Graystone. 

He found on his arrival his father waiting for him at 
the station. He had an anxious, worried look on his face 
which quickly vanished, however, on catching sight of Harry’s 
cheerful countenance. He saw by the look in his nephew’s 
eyes that his mission had been successful, "and judged that 
no questions had been asked. 

"Well Harry,” he said, "you managed it all right, I hope?” 

"Yes, Father,” was the reply, "I had no difficulty at all.” 

"They made no bones at the bank about cashing the 
check I suppose?” 

"None in the least; they scrutinized it somewhat carefully, 
and then scrutinized me; but they asked no questions,” was 
the reply. 

"I expected as much,” Robert answered. "Of course it 
would have been more satisfactory if Lord Menheriot had 
made it out in my name instead of making it payable to 
bearer. However, since they raised no question at the bank, 
we need not concern ourselves.” 

"I think they were too busy to raise any questions,” Harry 
said with a laugh. "The place was literally thronged. I 
had to wait my turn before I could get to the counter. I 
never realized before what money there is in London.” 

"Aye, it is a sight to go into one of those London banks,” 
Robert answered. 

"My little eheck seemed as nothing,” Harry said, "though 
I confess I have not felt quite comfortable carrying so much 
money in my pocket ” 

For a while they walked on in silence; then Robert said: 

"You need not say anything to the girls Harry about your 
trip to London to-day. I mean the object of it.” 

"I don’t see why?” Harry said, questioningly. 


TO LONDON TOWN. 


53 


“Well, it is this way. I have never told them of the strait 
in which I found myself, and so it is not necessary that 
they should know eitner about my financial difficulties or the 
way in which the Earl has helped me out of them/’ 

“As you will,” Harry said; “I assure you I am not eager 
to talk about the matter.” 

“You have the balance of the cheek with you, of course?” 

“Yes, I have it in bank notes in my pocket. Shall I give 
it to you now?” 

“No, perhaps you had better wait until we get home.” 

After tea the two men retired to the little parlor when 
Harry counted out the £ 135 that he had brought with him. 
Robert fingered tke new, crisp notes eagerly and with a 
strange look of triumph in his eyes. 

“You deserve something for your trouble Harry,” he 
said. “If you would like to have one of these notes you are 
quite welcome.” 

“I would prefer to have none of the money,” Harry an- 
swered. “I have just a little spare cash that will do for my 
present wants.” 

“As you will, as you will,” Robert answered with a sigh 
of relief. He seemed loth to reduce the amount by the 
smallest fraction. Long after Harry had left him he sat 
gloating over the little heap of notes as a miser- might. To 
him they represented unmeasured possibilities. He had been 
building castles and dreaming dreams all day. In view of the 
possibility of getting the money he had wired to an old school- 
fellow, who was an outside broker, in the city, as to the 
best way of investing a few pounds that had come into his 
possession, and in reply had got a wire, “Buy Bonsons.” 

Robert, however, did not know what Bonsons meant, so 
he hurried away to the news agent and got a London paper 
and began to read carefully the money market intelligence, 
and the share list. He discovered that “Bonsons” referred to 
some South African mines that at present were worth almost 
nothing. The pound shares in fact had gone down to two 
shillings arid sixpence, and from what the brief mining re- 
port said might go even lower th*n that. 

This to Robert did not look very encouraging so he wired 
to his friend to write him particulars by that evening* s post, 
so that he might hear first thing in the morning. He had 


54 


fro PAY THE PRICE. 


great faith, however, in his friend’s business capacity, and 
felt sure that he would not advise him so peremptorily to 
purchase “Bonsons” unless there was money in it. 

Of course it was a speculation he knew, but in these 
days a man had to speculate if he was to win. 

Meanwhile Harry and the other members of the family 
were discussing the chances of the Earl’s recovery. Up to the 
present he had not recovered consciousness, and the local 
doctor was still without hope. But the specialist from Lon- 
don had not yet given his report. All the Mortons, except 
Robert, hoped that the Earl would recover. Robert, of course, 
was anxious that he should die. If he recovered his reason 
again, and was able to transact business, he would be certain 
to find out that a check had been abstracted from his check 
book and forged for £250. The very fact that it was made 
payable to bearer would awaken the Earl’s suspicion; more- 
over the bank returned all checks after they had been cashed, 
hence it would be impossible that this check would escape 
Lord Menheriot’s eye, and if this should happen, of course, 
the forgery would be discovered and the blame would at once 
fall upon Harry. 

There was, however, no prospect of his recovery yet, and 
Robert’s mind was quite easy on the question. He was so 
engrossed with the idea of making a fortune on the stock 
exchange out of his small beginnings, that other matters had 
not much chance of securing a place in his thoughts. 

On the following morning he was up early as usual, and 
walked along the lane towards the village in order to inter- 
cept the postman. As he expected he found a long letter 
from his friend George Fletcher, who entered into all par- 
ticulars respecting the “Bonsons Mine.” 

There was every possibility, he said, that there would be 
an immediate boom in these shares, and it was not unlikely 
that they might run as high a £5 per share, in which case 
those who purchased now would reap a very handsome har- 
vest. The prospect of course was a very inviting one, but 
he knew at the same time that the risk was great, and the 
question in his mind now was, should he take the risk. The 
possession of £130 was in itself a mere nothing. If he invest- 
ed it at the ordinary rate of interest, it would bring him in 
such an infinitesimal amount that .he would scarcely be any 


TO LONDON TOWN. 


55 


the better for it. As the nucleus for speculation on the 
Stock Exchange, it might of course turn out to be a trump 
card. 

“If I lose, I lose,” he said to himself, “and I shall be no 
worse off in the end; but if I win then there ma.y be a fortune, 
and I want to be independent of this teaching business, for 
when the Earl is gone I may pack up my traps and depart from 
this place as quickly as possible. He was a little disconcerted 
half an hour later to hear the Earl was decidedly better, and 
that the London specialist held out ia hope, a faint one it is 
true, that he might ultimately recover. 

The groom who brought the news said that “there had 
been a confusion of blood in the Earl's brain, but there was 
a chance that he might become dissipated, and that if he did 
become dissipated — which was not at all likely since the Earl 
was an exceedingly sober man — then he might recover, unless 
however, he did give way to dissipation there was no chance 
for him/ 

Harry laughed outright at this exceedingly lucid explana- 
tion of the case, but Robert looked painfully grave and 
solemn. 

For himself he had no fear. If the worst came to the 
worst suspicionwould not light upon him. He had so arranged 
matters that Harry would become the scapegoat. Of course it 
would place him in a very awkward position. Harry would 
know the truth and would lose all respect for him. The part 
that he would have to play would be increasingly difficult, 
but having started there was no turning back. Whatever the 
consequences might be, it would have to be carried through. 
He would be sorry of course that Harry should suffer. He 
saw how that one sin would lead him to another; that lying 
would be followed by treachery, and by and by unutterable 
meanness. That was a part of the price he would have to 
pay if the Earl got better. 

“Em a fool to worry myself,” he muttered at length; “he 
isn’t better yet.” Nevertheless when he sat down to break- 
fast, he found that the news had taken away all his appetite. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


WEAVING THE MESH. 

OBERT MORTON developed, or deteriorated, rapid- 
ly. Within a month he hardly recognized himself. 
He flung away his old beliefs with an ease and 
rapdity that were an astonishment to him. For 
forty years and more he had been a fool — so he said — now his 
eyes had been suddenly opened, and as a consequence life 
was a pleasanter thing, and he was a happier man. 

He had been a believer in such old wives’ fables as 
“Honesty is the best policy;” “Stolen money yields no profit;” 
“Dishonest houses bury the builders,” with much other tra- 
ditional philosophy of a similar character. Now he had 
proved how worthless and silly it all was. 

He had taken his friend’s- advice and with a hundred 
pounds had bought eight hundred pounds worth of Bon- 
son stock, and within a week of buying the shares they had 
jumped up to par, and were still advancing. 

He walked to and from the school-house like a man in 
a dream. He had visions of becoming a millionaire. There 
was every prospect that “Bonsons” might reach £10 a share. 
If so, he should of course sell out and invest in other things. 
He believed that he had a genius for finance; and that the 
money he had stolen instead of giving him trouble would 
be the making of him. 

That trouble was in store for Harry he saw clearly 
enough. The Earl was daily getting better. That was the 
only unlucky part of the whole business. If he would only 
quietly slip out of time as he ought to do, there would be 
no further trouble for any one; but by getting better he 
would make things unpleasant all round. The Vicar would 
be awfully disappointed, try to hide it as he might, and so 
would his son Rupert. The forgery would of course be dis- 
covered, and would be tracked home to Harry, and he would 
have to pay the penalty. 

“But that is the way of this highly moral and beautifully 



WEAVING THE MESH. 


57 


managed world,” lie said to himself with a curl of the lip. 
“It is always the honest who suffer. Virtue gets rewarded. 
Of course it does — by being sent to jail,” and he chuckled as 
over a good joke. 

“Oh! honesty is a lovely thing in theory,” he went on. 
“It did Wonders for me. It kept me constantly at the point of 
starvation; it sent me to church every Sunday to play the 
hypocrite; it made me obsequious to my betters; it robbed 
me of my independence. But the moment I kicked over the 
traces, I became a free man,” and he rubbed his chin glee- 
fully and smiled. By the end of a fortnight “Bonsons” had 
gone up to two pounds a sharer 

“Think of it,” said Robert Morton to himself as he walked 
briskly to school. “Within a fortnight I am worth sixteen 
hundred pounds, and all this out of stolen money that ‘yields 
no profit/ Strange what fools we are to be ruled by old wives’ 
fables.” 

Robert said nothing of his good fortune to any of the 
members of his own family. A secret that is shared is no 
longer a secret. They noticed that he was infinitely more 
cheerful than he had been of late but attributed it entirely 
to the fact that he was no longer pressed by creditors — that 
is Harry and Mrs. Morton did — the girls and Bob of course 
know nothing about the matter. 

Robert would have given up his school and retired to 
London, but for the fact that such a step might excite sus- 
picion. Ho, he would have to stay until the storm burst, 
and play his role of rogue and liar and hypocrite to the end. 
It would be unpleasant, no doubt, to face Harry’s anger and 
contempt; but it would soon be over. Evidently the Earl 
was determined to get better — another proof of the idiotic 
principles on which the world was governed — so Harry would 
have to be the scape-goat. 

Meanwhile* Harry was going on steadily with his studies, 
unconscious of the storm that vas gradually gathering over 
his head. Occasionally he was a little depressed, and pined 
for the light and inspiration of Monica’s smile; but on the 
whole he kept up his courage and hoped for the best. He 
avoided the field path that led across the Park, not that he 
imagined that Monica might be loitering thereabout; but tl\e 
Vicar QY Rupert might be, and he wanted to avoid even the 


58 


TO PAT THE PRICE. 


appearance of seeking an interview with Monica. He had 
given his promise to the Earl, and he was determined to keep 
it. He heard now and then that Monica was scarcely ever 
seen opt of doors. She spent nearly all her time with her 
guardian. Had he been her own father, she could not have 
been more attentive to him. 

There was perhaps another reason why Monica did not 
much care to venture out alone, two reasons in fact. Rupert 
Grant she knew was keeping diligent watch over her actions 
and was always waiting to pounce down upon her directly 
she ventured out of doors, and she did not want to see Rupert 
Grant. She preferred his room to his company. Also she 
had begun to have an inkling of the little domestic plot that 
was being hatched for her disposal, and she resented it. She 
was only a girl yet, and the idea of ^matrimony was very 
distasteful to her, especially when it was intended that Ru- 
pert Grant should figure as the bridegroom. The second 
reason was she did not wish to compromise Harry Morton in 
any way. She was not quite certain yet if she had not been 
indiscreet at their last meeting. Young ladies as a rule do 
not ask to be kissed. 

“But it was only Harry, ” she said to herself in self-de- 
fence, “and we have known each other nearly all our lives. 
Besides, it was goodbye, aiid I know he’ll not think the worse 
of me.” 

Monica had no idea of breaking through the compact. 
It was one of those stupid things that had to be, and she 
would have to make the best of it. The world was full of stu- 
pid things, and life was hedged round with all kinds of ir- 
ritating formalities. It always had been, so she had been told, 
and would most likely remain so to the end of the world. 
Now and then she felt inclined to rebel, but she quickly saw 
the futility of it. What Harry had said to her had already 
come true. She was in a cage, and she might batter herself 
to death and no good would come. of it. 

She did not pine for Harry as he did for her, and for 
the simple reason that she was not in love in the sense that 
he was. She frankly admitted that she was very fond of 
him, that she liked him better than any friend that she had. 
She had faith in him, too. She believed that he was clever, 
and would make his way in the world; and some day even the 


WEAVING THE MESH. 


59 


stupid world — including the Vicar and his son — might ad- 
mit that socially he was her equal, and if that day ever came 
she sometimes wondered what would happen. 

She had no time however for indulging in day-dreams. 
Her guardian demanded nearly all her time and attention. 
When he was able to sit up she sometimes read to him; she 
even transacted some business that he did not care to entrust 
to Robert Morton. She got a square envelope and sent his 
bank book to London, and wrote one or two private letters 
at his dictation. She was pleased beyond measure to dis- 
cover that she was of some use in the world, and suggested 
to the Earl that she should be his private secretary always. 

It was a warm day in early July that Lord Menheriot sat 
in a small sitting room opening out of his bedroom with his 
pass book open before him. It had just come down by post, 
and naturally he was curious to see what the balance was, and 
what his total expenditure had been for the past six months. 

In the pocket of the pass book was a bundle of checks 
all punctured and endorsed, and in the order in which they 
had been cashed. These he would compare directly with the 
entries in the book. 

Suddenly the Earl started and gave a little exclamation 
of surprise. 

"Bearer, two hundred and fifty pounds?” he said slowly in 
a questioning tone. "There must be some mistake surely. I 
have made obt no check to ‘Bearer/ I never do in fact. 
Clerk too lazy to copy the name I expect. But let me think, 
I have drawn no check for that amount since the last balance. 
I should surely remember that sum. But where is the check?” 
and he pulled the bundles out of his pocket and ran through 
them. It was the last of the list, and no sooner did his eyes 
rest upon it than he started to his feet; then sat down 
again. 

"That is not my signature,” he said with a gasp. "I could 
swear to it, though by Jove, it is a lemarkably good imita- 
tion.” 

The next moment there came a slight rap at the door and 
the Vicar entered. 

"I say Grant,” cried the Earl looking very white and 
excited, "look at this check. What do you say to that signa- 
ture ?” 


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“Well, what is amiss with it?” said the Yicar adjusting 
his spectacles, and regarding it attentively. 

“Matter with it, why everything is the matter with it. 
Would you really accept that as my signature?” 

“I should, most certainly,” the Vicar answered slowly. 
“Why -do you ask?” 

“Why, because the signature is not mine. It is a base 
forgery. I never drew that check. Do you think I should 
be such an idiot as to send out an uncrossed check for £250 
payable to Bearer?” and he stamped his foot angrily at the 
suggestion. 

“Certainly, my dear cousin, it is not like you to do such 
a thing/ 5 said the Vicar mildly, “and if it is a forgery, we 
must probe the matter to the bottom.” 

“If it is a forgery? I tell you there is no if in the case. 
Dll stake my life upon it. It is a base forgery.” 

“But, my dear cousin, you must not excite yourself over 
the matter/ 5 said the Vicar. “You remember what the 
specialist said about avoiding excitement — another effusion 
of blood to the brain might prove fatal.” 

“You are quite right. Grant,” said the Earl in a milder 
tone. “My life is more to me than two hundred and fifty 
^pounds; nevertheless this is a matter that cannot be allowed 
to rest. 55 

“That is quite true. But leave the matter in my hands. 
If you like I will go down at once and consult Brown and 
Brown, your solicitors.” 

“Do/ 5 said the Earl eagerly, “and take the check with 
you. 55 

“But you must promise not to worry yourself/ 5 said the 
Vicar. 

“Tell Brown I leave the matter entirely in his hands; 
Let him probe it to the bottom if possible, and bring the 
thief to justice, and say nothing to me about it until it is 
done. 55 

“That is a wise course,” said the Vicar patronizingly. “It 
is most essential that- you should not worry yourself over the 
matter. 55 

The Earl looked up at his relative and smiled. His dis- 
interestedness and solicitude were quite remarkable. 

To do the Vicar justice, however, he was less disappointed 


WEAVING THE MESH. 


61 


than might have been expected at the Earl's recovery, much 
less disappointed than were his wife and son. Of course it is 
not in human nature to see a prize almost within one’s 
grasp and then see it slip away again without some little 
regret. 

For a few days he had walked as in a dream, and looked 
with pride across the green acres of Graystone. He had' pic- 
tured himself taking his seat in the House of Lords, and 
rubbing shoulders with the greatest in the land. Then the 
dream faded, and he found himself back again in the ob- 
scure and humdrum path of toil and duty. No, it was not 
without a pang that he saw the bright vision fade. But he 
had his consolation also. 

It was not in vain that he believed in the gospel which 
he preached, and, proving its power to sustain and comfort 
in disappointment, he was able to preach it with more effect 
to others. It was his nearest approach yet to experimental 
religion, and a clear experience to fall back upon is always 
a power in a man’s life. 

His was not a great or a heroic nature. Indeed he was 
capable of things that were mean and little. Nevertheless 
he saw as in a glass certain ideals, and though he never rose 
to them, they were not without their influence on his char- 
acter. He tried to feel thankful that the Earl was daily get- 
ting better, and if there were moments when he did not feel 
thankful at all, but rather the reverse, let that be written 
down to his infirmity. 

The Earf half doubted the genuineness of his solicitude, 
but he kept his doubts to himself. 

“If I were in his place,” he reflected when the Vicar 
had taken his departure, “I do believe I should feel horribly 
chagrined, and I’m afraid I should show it too.” 

Later in the day Robert Morton came to his employer 
for instructions. There were certain cottages in Graystone 
that wanted repairing, also a farm that had fallen vacant and 
would want re-letting. 

That the case of the forged check should come up was 
inevitable. Robert was quite prepared for it, and had re- 
hearsed his part with great diligence. 

He appeared so astonished at the Earl’s announcement 
that he dropped into a chair and stared. 


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“You may well look astonished,” said Lord Menheriot; 
“it is the most unaccountable thing I have ever heard of.” 

“And have you no clue to the forger?” Robert asked with 
a little gasp. 

“Not yet, of course, and the mischief is I dare not worry 
over the matter myself. You know the one thing I have 
to avoid — for the present at least — is excitement.” 

“So I understand.” 

“But. I have put the matter into the hands of Brown and 
Brown, and I have little doubt but they will be able to track 
the thief.” 

“It is to be hoped so,” said Robert, leaning forward in 
his chair and looking unflinchingly into the Earl’s face. He 
had learned his lesson well and was priding himself on the 
way in which he acted his part. 

“The stupid cashier ought to have known,” Lord Men- 
heriot went on. “It is well known I always cross my checks 
and never under any circumstances make them payable to 
bearer.” 

“Of course all the cashiers may not have been aware of 
that,” Robert answered reflectively, “and then at the city 
bank they are generally so busy.” 

“The puzzle to me is,” said the Earl, “that any other 
customer of the bank should have been able to get hold of 
my signature and copy it so closely. But I think there is 
little doubt that we shall discover the author of the fraud.” 

“And such a crime cannot be condoned,” Robert said 
with emphasis. 

“Condoned? I should think not indeed. Of all crimes 
against property, it seems to me the worst. If we can only 
find the criminal, he shall be made to suffer.” 

It proved a very much easier matter than Lord Menheriot 
had imagined to run to earth what appeared to be the real 
criminal. Rupert Grant assisted Mr. Brown in the delicate 
task, and directly he got an inkling of what appeared to be 
the truth, he was almost beside himself with excitement and 
delight. 

Rupert was still smarting under the castigation he had 
received, hence the thought of seeing Harry branded as a 
criminal and punished as he deserved, gave him the most 
exquisite satisfaction. Not only would he get his revenge, 


WEAVING THE MESH. 


63 


but Monica’s girlish idol would he shattered at the same 
time, and the way would be left clear for him to go in and 
win. 

“My star is in the ascendant after all," he said to him- 
self gleefully, and he chuckled and rubbed his hands. 

Having struck the right trail, it proved the easiest thing 
in the world to follow it to the end. 

“There are two things we must be careful not to do 
Brown,” Rupert said one day to the lawyer. “In the first 
place we must not strike till we are quite ready and every 
link in the chain of evidence is complete. And in the next 
place, we must say nothing to the Earl about it until the 
thief is in custody/ 

“Why not?” asked the lawyer sharply. 

“First because a missfire would make us look like two 
fools, and second because the Earl has an unexplained fond- 
ness for the thief, and might prevent the law taking its 
course.” 

“Hm, yes, I think you are right,” said the lawyer reflec- 
tively. “But I think in a couple of days at the outside we 
shall be able to inform him that the thief is in jail.” 

So while the mesh was gradually and imperceptibly tight- 
ening round him, Harry went steadily on with his work, bliss- 
fully unconscious of the approaching trouble. 

There was no sign of the gathering storm, no shadow cast 
before. When the blow fell it was a veritable bolt out of the 
blue and for a while his brain seemed to reel under the 
shock. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE STORM BURSTS. 

ARRY and Madge were returning from a long ram- 
ble in the hush and cool of the evening. Madge 
was older than Dora and was much more of a com- 
panion for him. Also they had more in common; 
Madge reminded him of Monica, and was like her in many 
things. She had the same fearlessness, the same sunny dis- 
position, the same cheerful outlook upon life. 

They were walking slowly, for they had grown tired; 
besides the evening of a summer’s day is the most enjoyable 
part of it. There was no roar of traffic, or scream of rail- 
way engines to disturb the quiet. The lowing of kine had 
ceased, for milking time was past. Even the birds 
had ceased their songs, save a happy thrush here and 
there that could not quite contain the pent up volume of its 
song. They had left the village behind them and were near- 
ing home. 

Conversation between them had tapered off into silence. 
They had talked so much earlier on, that there was now little 
left to say, and neither was in the mood to say -it. The 
spirit of the evening was upon them. Madge leaned upon 
her brother’s arm, and kept step with him. Now and then 
she looked up into his strong handsome face and smiled faint- 
ly. She was very proud of Harry, and pictured for him a far 
greater future than he dared picture to himself. 

Coming towards them were two policemen. It was not 
often that policemen were seen in pairs in the quiet lanes 
round Graystone. It was not often, they were seen at all. 
Harry and Madge both watched their approach with inter- 
est, though neither had the least suspicion of danger. Hearer 
and nearer they came, and paused directly in front of them, 
compelling Harry and Madge to pause also. 

“Your name is Harry Morton,- I think?” said the elder 
of the two, who did all the talking. 

“Yes, that is my name,” Harry answered indifferently. 




THE STORM BURSTS. 


6 § 

“Then it is my painful duty to inform you that I hold a 
warrant for your arrest.” 

“lor my arrest?” repeated Harry slowly, as' if not sure 
he had heard aright, while Madge clung to his arm too aston- 
ished to utter a word. 

“For your arrest, sir/’ was the laconic reply. 

“I think you must be making a mistake,” Harry said 
quite calmly, for as yet no suspicion of the truth had crossed 
his mind. 

“I can assure you there is no mistake,” the constable an- 
swered. “Here is the warrant which you can read for your- 
self if you like.” 

Harry, however, did not read. Fie was too impatient for 
that. 

“On what charge do you arrest me?” he asked with quiver- 
ing lip. 

“Forgery, sir. But ” 

“Oh, you wicked man,” shrieked Madge, “go away with 
you, how dare you?” 

“Hush, Madge,” Harry said, gently. “It is all a mistake, 
it will be put right later on/ ’ 

Then turning to the officer he said, “Forgery of what?” 

“Well, that is not exactly my business,” was the smiling 
reply, “and I suppose it is only natural that you should pre- 
tend ignorance, especially in the presence of the young lady.” 

“Pretend ignorance,” he said with fine scorn. 

“Anyhow, you are my prisoner,” said the constable, 
“charged with forging Lord Menlreriot’s name on a check 
for £250, and I would advise you to say nothing now as it 
may be used as evidence at the trial.” 

For a moment Harry’s eyes blazed; then a strange, sub- 
dued far-away look came into them. Madge, still clinging 
t5 his arm, looked at him and wondered. 

For several seconds he did not speak. All the truth came 
to him as in a flash. He required no further explanation. 
He saw not merely the dishonesty of the man he called Fa- 
ther, but the meanness and treachery. He understood now 
why he showed no pleasure at the Earl’s recovery; why he 
kept -so much of late from the other members of the family; 
why his face seemed to brighten at any news that the Earl 
was not so well. 


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At first Harry’s indignation knew no bounds. Then ply 
began to mingle with it. He saw the stress, the occasion, 
the temptation. His father had expected that the Earl 
would die, in which ease the fraud in all probability 
would never be discovered. Then his anger got the better 
of him again. It seemed so contemptibly mean and wicked, 
so ineffably cowardly, so to plan his crime that in^case of dis- 
covery suspicion should fall upon another, and that other 
his own son. 

Harry bit his lip to keep from hurling anathemas at his 
supposed father, but Madge was still clinging to his arm 
and lifting appealing eyes to his, and for Madge’s sake he 
must be silent. 

“I’m ready to go with you, officer,” he said, firmly; “there’s 
been a mistake and God alone knows if it will ever be recti- 
fied.” 

“But what am I to do?” Madge asked, the tears starting 
suddenly in her eyes. 

“Go quietly home, Madge, and tell father to come and see 
me as early as possible; not to-night, for it is too late; but 
as early as possible to-morrow.” 

“0 Harry! I cannot,” she wailed. 

“But you must, Madge. I shall be all right, never fear,” 
and he stooped and kissed her. 

She tried to cling to him; but he put her gently aside 
and left her standing in the middle of the road. 

For several minutes she watched him as he walked away 
between the two policemen; then turning, she rushed home 
with all possible haste, and bursting into the room where 
her father and mother were sitting, she cried out in an 
agony of distress, 

“0 father! they have taken Harry to prison.” 

“To prison,” cried her mother, starting to her feet, while 
Bobert Morton rose slowly from his chair, but did not speak. 

“Yes, to prison,” Madge cried, the tears starting again in 
her eyes; “they say he has forged a check or something of 
the kind.” 

Instantly Mrs. Morton’s face grew ashy pale. She Yoked 
at her husband with trembling lips, but seemed unable to 
speak; then sank helplessly into the chair from which she 
had risen. 


THE STORM BURSTS. 


67 


Robert looked at her with a curious light in his eyes; 
then said with apparent calmness, “Don’t be alarmed, mother; 
there must be a mistake somewhere.” 

She was a weak, confiding woman, who had unbounded 
faith in her husband’s capabilities. She looked up to him 
in everything, scarcely having a will of her own. On the 
whole, he treated her kindly and affectionately; but he was 
the ruling force in the house and she yielded to his will 
generally without a word. 

Madge looked from one to the other with bewildered eyes. 
She could not understand her father’s apparent unconcern. 
What did he know? Why did he not speak to her and explain 
things? 

“Surely, father,” she cried, “he has not done what he’s 
charged with.” 

“No, Madge,” he answered; “there is a mistake somewhere, 
but these mistakes cannot be rectified in a moment.” 

“And are we to remain here doing nothing?” she asked 
impatiently. 

“What can we do?” he replied. “If the check that Harry 
cashed has been forged, of course, that is a matter that will 
have to be inquired into and proved. It does not follow that 
he is guilty and we must hope for the best.” 

“Oh! I cannot endure it,” Madge replied, “to think that 
he should be in a prison- all the night, and we home here in 
our comfortable beds.” 

“Oh! he will not mind that very much,” Robert answered 
indifferently; “men like to rough it now and then.” 

“But you must go first thing in the morning,” she said; 
“that was his last word to me.” 

“Don’t fear, Madge,” he replied; “everything shall be done 
that can be done,” and with that he. retired from the room to 
his own little office. 

During the night Robert Morton slept scarcely a wink. 
How to face his nephew he did not know. Sooner or later, 
of course, he would have to talk the matter over with him; 
but h$ dreaded the interview so much that he was prepared 
to grasp at any excuse for not going. 

Bv morning he had found an excuse that was satisfactory. 
He developed suddenly and unaccountably an attack of rheu- 
matism which would not allow him to get out of bed. He 


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lay quite still, and with much patience while the hours of the 
day passed on. He declined to have a doctor called in; he was 
quite sure, he said, that the attack would soon pass away. 
His wife believed that he was suffering great pain and, indeed, 
he was mentally. Physically, perhaps, he had never been 
better in his life. But he simulated bodily pain in great suc- 
cess, and his face wore an expression of positive torture. 

Word was sent to Harry as soon as possible that his sup- 
posed father was unable to see him; that he was confined to 
his bed by a sudden illness. Harry curled his lip with some- 
thing like a smile when this message was delivered; but he 
made no remark. He realized in a moment where the dif- 
ficulty lay, and wondered what part he should play in this 
painful drama. 

Early in the forenoon he was brought before the magis- 
trates and listened with curious interest to the evidence that 
was brought against him. Proof after proof was marshalled 
in logical sequence. Those who had been investigating the 
matter had left no weak link in the chain of evidence. The 
story of his interview with the Earl the night previous to 
his illness was told. The Earl had to admit that he found 
Harry in his private room; that his desk was wide open, and 
his check book and many papers of importance were lying 
aibout. 

The cashier of the bank swore positively that Harry was 
the man who cashed the check on the day following. Two 
or three experts who had made very careful examination of 
the signature were positive that it was forged. Also the 
Earl sent his written affidavit to this effect. Indeed, the 
whole case was so clear and convincing that the magistrates 
had no other course open to them than to commit Harry 
to trial at the forthcoming assizes, on the charge of forgery; 
bail being refused. 

The proceedings were exceedingly brief and formal. It 
was understood that Harry reserved his defence, though in 
reality he did not speak to anyone. He kept his eyes most 
of the time on the presiding magistrate, but in turning to 
leave the dock his eyes rested on the face of Rupert Grant, 
and a cloud swept across hisdbrow in a moment. The look of 
triumph in Rupert’s eyes, the cynical smile that curled his lip 
maddened him almost beyond endurance. Had he not caught 


THE STORM BURSTS. 


69 


that glimpse he -would have returned to his cell with a com- 
paratively light heart; but that look stung him to the heart 
and sent the blood rushing in a torrent to his face. 

Meanwhile, Monica like an uneasy ghost was walking 
through the great house unajble to rest anywhere. The news 
had fallen upon her like a thunder clap-, and for a while 
com}:>letely stunned her. Could it be possible that Harry, 
who in many respects was her ideal, had descended to this 
base crime? 

She rushed off to her guardian to know what it meant, 
and he with grave face told her that he feared it was only 
too true. 

“We have all been deceived by his handsome appearance 
and winning ways,” he said, “and have discovered that be- 
neath his pleasant exterior he carries an evil heart.” 

But Monica, in spite of all that her guardian said, stead- 
fastly refused to believe that Harry was guilty. 

“Ho,” she said, “it cannot be; it is simply impossible.” 

“My child,” said the Earl, “nothing is impossible in the 
matter of evil in this wicked world. Temptation comes to 
all men, and we are all honest until we are tempted beyond 
our strength.” 

“But I am sure this would be no temptation to him,” 
she cried. “He isn't a miser who loves money for its own 
sake.” 

“Ho, my child, but he has had to run into many expenses 
lately. He has been earning very little for some time past. 
It is possible that those who trusted have become pressing. 
It may be that he was in the clutches of some money 
lender and this was the only way of getting out. Who can 
tell? When people are in great straits they do desperate 
things.” 

“Ho, no, guardie,” she cried, “he would never do that.” 

“Alas! my child, many a man apparently better than he 
has done much worse things. One grieves to have to say it, 
but facts cannot be gainsaid.” 

So, finding that she could get no comfort from her guard- 
ian, she left "him and wandered disconsolately through the 
big house. 

“Oh! if I could only see him,” she said to herself, wring- 
ing her hands. “If I could only hear from. his own lips 


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that he was innocent, then I should be satisfied in spite of 
all the world might say” 

She never realized till now how much Harry had become 
to her, how completely his trouble was hers, how she sym- 
pathized with him in this calamity. And yet, and yet — if 
in the end it should prove true that he was guilty of 
crime she believed her faith in human nature would vanish 
forever. 

At last a desperate resolve began to shape itself in her 
mind. She would go and see him for herself; she would 
run all risks and dare all unfriendly comments. He would 
not be removed yet to the county jail, and in the meantime 
she felt certain that she had influence enough to see him 
in his cell. Of course, -she would have to keep the matter 
a secret from her guardian and everyone else. She knew 
that the enterprise would be considered quixotic, and alto- 
gether unbecoming a young girl; yet she felt as though she 
would lose her reason unless she could have the truth from 
his own lips, and there was no way of getting that except 
by an interview with him. 

Before she had time, however, to order the dog cart to 
be brought round, Rupert Grant was announced. Monica 
advanced to meet him with a positive frown clouding her face. 
She had scarcely grace to be civil to him. 

“Good afternoon, Monica,” he said, with his blandest 
smile. 

“Good afternoon, Rupert,” she answered, and there was 
a coldness in her tone that he was quick to detect. 

“You do not seem quite yourself to-day,” he r'eplied, hesi- 
tatingly. 

“I am not myself, I am troubled a good deal, in fact 
I do not feel at all well.” 

“You should get out into the sunshine,” he answered. 
“It is simply lovely out of doors; you would be much bet- 
ter than cooping yourself up here in the shadow.” 

“I intend going out directly.” 

“And may I not have the pleasure of accompanying you?” 
he questioned. 

“I prefer being alone, thank you.” 

He bit his lip and for a moment was silent, then look- 
ing at her, he said. 


TUti STORM TtUliSTti. 


n 


“l hope, Monica, you are not worrying yourself over this 
affair of Morton’s.” 

“And if I am?” she questioned. 

“Of course it is only natural that we should all he more 
or less distressed; in fact I am quite distressed myself, I 
am downright sorry for the young man.” 

“Don’t tell lies, Bupert,” she answered quickly; “you are 
not sorry, you are glad.” 

“Monica, Monica!” he said, in tones of reproof, “how 
can you say such things?” 

“Anyone can see it in your eyes,” she replied; “you are 
rejoiced in the downfall of your enemy.” 

“On the contrary,” he replied, “I am deeply grieved; no 
man can think of another yielding to such temptation with- 
out feeling distressed in consequence.” 

“You are assuming, like the rest of them, that he has 
yielded to temptation,” she said, bitterly; “why not give him 
the benefit of the doubt?” 

“Unfortunately, Monica,” he replied, seriously, “there is 
no doubt in the case; the evidence is circumstantial, I grant, 
but there is not a single link in the chain missing. Every 
point has been cleared up.” 

“He has not been proved guilty yet,” she said, “by an 
English jury, and every man should be considered honest 
until his guilt is proved. I have been told that that is the 
English lav/.” 

“In the eye of the law, certainly, every man is innocent 
until he has been proved to be guilty; but in this case there 
is no escape for one.” 

“Of course you will say there is no escape,” she answered 
with a flash of indignation in her eyes; “people can always 
find what they look for.” 

“I think you are scarcely fair to me, Monica,” he. said, 
in hurt tones. “I confess I have never had any great lik- 
ing for the fellow; he assumed too much to please me, and 
has so constantly aped the gentleman. Those common peo- 
ple are rarely to he trusted, and I rather pride myself that 
I was never able to trust him from the first, as events have 
proved my doubts were justified.” 

“You are very clever, Bupert, we have long known that,” 
she answered. 


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72 


“Don't 'be unkind, Monica/' he said. “Of course one 
can but feel for you; it must be a terrible humiliation in 
your case; you made so much of the fellow to the grief and 
annoyance of us all." 

“Indeed, I cannot see that it was any concern of yours." 

“Perhaps not, Monica, but I hope some day you will look 
at things differently. Let us not quarrel about a fellow who 
is not worth quarreling about. We have, been deceived, and 
the sooner we forget him and this painful affair the better. 
Now Monica will you not come with me for a walk in the 
park? You look as pale as a ghost; you do really. You 
should get out into the sunshine for a little while." 

“I am quite well thank you, Rupert," she answered 
stiffly, “and for the present, at any rate, prefer to be alone." 

For a moment his eyes blazed, but he quickly recovered 
himself and answered in his mildest manner. 

“I will consider your wish, Monica, in this, as I am anx- 
ious to do in all other matters," and he turned and walked 
towards the door. 

“Lord Menheriot is in his own room," she said, as he 
was closing the door behind him, “and I have no doubt he 
will be pleased to see you." 

“Thank you, Monica," and the door was shut with a snap. 

Monica went back to her chair by the window and sat 
down. Resting her chin upon her hand she looked off upon 
the wide, rolling landscape; but she did not see it; her 
thoughts were elsewhere. It seemed to her as if within the 
past few hours she had lived years; she was no longer a 
thoughtless, light-hearted girl; the burden of life had sud- 
denly come upon her. She had awakened to the fact that 
she was a woman, and that there were sorrows and distresses 
to be faced and endured. Then rising suddenly to her feet, 
she left the room, and gave orders for the dog cart to be 
brought round immediately. Ten minutes later she climbed 
into the cart by the side of Sam, the groom, and was drawn 
quickly away. Rupert descending the steps from the front 
door at the moment looked at her with surprise, and won- 
dered what sudden freak had taken her. 


CHAPTER X. 


VISITORS. 

ARRY was seated on the hard mattress that had 
served him for a bed on the previous night/ 
wrapped in thought. He was still undecided as to 
his course of action, though he was gradually com- 
ing round to the conviction that there was only one thing 
to be done. 

Suppose he were to say that his father- stole the check 
and forged the signature; he could not prove it, and his bare ' 
word would go for nothing. Nobody would believe him. 
Moreover, such a statement would prejudice his case. Neither 
judge nor jury would show pity to a man who tried to es- 
cape from the consequences .of his wrong- doing by libelling 
his own father. Besides, Madge was to be considered, and 
Dora and Bob,- as well as that meek-eyed woman he called 
Mother. 

So, little by little, the conviction was forced home to him 
that he was absolutely helpless, and even if . he could escape 
himself by incriminating his father, he would gain no satis- 
faction thereby. Except to himself, it was of little moment 
what became of him. He had no one dependent upon him. 
He could suffer in silence, and the world would go on just 
as well without him. But with Robert Morton it would be 
different. If he were found guilty and imprisoned, the whole 
family would suffer. The prospects of Madge and Dora 
would be ruined, and Mrs. Morton would break her heart 
and die. 

• “Willingly or unwillingly, I shall have to be the scape- 
goat,” he said to himself; “there seems no escape for me, 
and every dream and ambition will end in smoke.” 

His one and only consolation lay in the fact that, whether 
willingly or no, he was befriending Mrs. Morton and the chil- 
dren. For Robert Morton, he had no pity. Had he been 
merely weak, he could have forgiven him; but his meanness 
and treachery apd cruelty deserved no compassion. 



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That his temptation was great, he fully admitted. That 
his habitual cynicism and contempt for religion had weak- 
ened his moral fiber seemed only too evident. That the op- 
portunity had made the thief was also to be conceded; but 
for his cowardice and treachery there was no excuse, and if 
he could see him punished without inflicting punishment 
on others, he would rejoice unfeignedly. 

The fact that he believed he was his father did not count. 
A man who to save his own skill would ruin his own son, 
forfeited all affection; such an act severed forever the bond 
of relationship. 

“He is no longer my father/’ Harry said to himself with 
clenched hands, “and I am no more his son.” 

The afternoon sun was getting low and streaming slant- 
wise through the narrow window of his cell, filling it with 
a rich warm light. He moved himself a little so that he 
might get into the direct line of the sun’s rays, and he smiled 
as he did so. 

The next moment he heard the key turned in the lock, 
and the door was thrown open. But he did not turn his 
head; the entrance of a policeman or a magistrate was of no 
interest to him; but the light was good and pleasant to the 
eyes, and cheering to the heart, so he kept his face turned 
toward the light and the smile lingered round his lips. 

Then the rustle of a dress fell faintly on his ears, and 
the odor as of spring flowers suddenly filled the place. He 
turned his head quickly, and there stood Monica pale and 
trembling. 

“Monica!” he gasped, springing to his feet, “what brings 
you here?” 

“I came to see you, Harry,” she answered faintly, and 
then she broke down and began to sob. For several seconds 
he looked at her in silence. He longed to take her in his 
arms and kiss her. For a moment he forgot the difference 
in their station. He was a boy again and Monica was his 
companion and comrade. But it was only for a moment, 
and then the bitter truth swept like an icy wave over his 
heart. 

“Does the Earl know you are here?” he asked at length. 

“Ho, Harry, no one knows, but please don’t be angry 
with me. I could not rest until I had seen you.” 


VISITORS. 


73 


“Angry, Monica — •" and then he suddenly choked and 
turned away his head to hide his emotion. 

“They all say that you are guilty/' she said brokenly; 
“but — but — I will not believe it until you tell me so with 
your own lips." 

“God bless you Monica/' was all he could answer. 

“I knew they were all wrong/' she said cheerfully; “how 
stupid they must all be to think you could do such a thing." 

He turned and smiled at her though his lips were tremb- 
ling still. 

“And, of course, you will be able to clear yourself at the 
trial," she went on with a little catch in her breath. 

Instantly the smile faded from his face. 

“No, Monica, while I have been sitting here I have been 
thinking it all out, and I can see no escape. I can prove 
nothing, and the evidence against me is overwhelming." 

“But you are innocent, Harry?" 

“Yes, Monica, I am innocent, but, alas, I cannot prove 
it. On the other hand, it can be proved that I went to Lon- 
don with a forged check; that I cashed it at the bank; that 
I spent part of the money before I returned. It can be 
proved, also, that I was in the Earl's room alone the night 
before; that his desk was wide open and his check book 
within easy reach, and lastly, a dozen people know that I 
am what is called smart with the pen; that I can imitate 
almost anything, which unfortunately I have given proof 
of times without number. Now, Monica, can you see that, 
though I am innocent, I have only my bare word for it, while 
every circumstance points in the opposite direction?" 

“But you must know where you got the check from?" 

“But what good will that do me? Suppose I were to 
say I got it from you, which I didn’t, or from the Vicar, 
-which I didn't, or from .somebody else, which I did, how 
should I be any better off? Who would believe me? On the 
other hand, I should be branded as a mean sco-undrel for 
trying to get off by incriminating some honest man." 

“Then you have to sit down and suffer in silence?" 

“As far as I can see at present, that is the only course 
open to me." 

“And is there no possible way of escape?" she asked, 
wringing her hands. 


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“Not unless the guilty party confesses,” he answered, 
with a hard look in his eyes, “and that is not at all likely.” 

“But suppose you challenge him with it?” 

“And suppose he denies it?” 

Monica was silent. She began to see now what she had 
never quite understood before: the difficulty of proving a 
negative. 

“But at least you know who the forger is?” she asked at 
length. 

“I know who gave me the check,” he answered with a 
smile, “but he might tell me that he received it from some- 
one else, and how could I prove that he did not?” 

“Oh, dear,” she cried, “the more you look at it the worse 
it grows.” 

• “That is so, Monica. I have looked at it until my brain 
has reeled, but I can see no loophole anywhere.” 

“But you are innocent, Harry. You have at least that 
satisfaction,” she said, with swimming eyes. 

“You do not doubt me., do you?” he asked eagerly. 

“No, Harry, I have never doubted you. Only — only — 
they have all been so emphatic — that I wanted to hear the 
truth from your own lips.” 

He looked at her sadly, but did not reply. 

“Don’t blame me, Harry, she ^yent on after a pause. 
“Women want to be assured. I think we are all alike. It 
is not that we doubt, only we like to have assurance.” 

“If you still believe in me, Monica,” he said at length, 
“I can bear the rest.” 

He would have said more, but the door was thrown open 
again and a policeman entered. Monica understood that the 
time was up and held out her hand to Harry in token of 
good-bye. Neither of them spoke again; For a long moment 
he held her hand in silence, then turned away and walked 
to the far end of the cell. He heard the door close and 
the key grate in' the lock; then with a groan he came back 
and threw himself on the mattress and hid his face in his 
hands. 

The sinking sun had disappeared; the cell had grown com- 
paratively dark; but the smell of flowers still lingered in the 
heavy air. Harry lay quite still, but his heart was in a 
strange tumult. He knew that it had cost Monica an un- 


VISITORS. 


77 


speakable effort to come and see him; that she had deliber- 
ately dared her guardian's anger and the evil tongues of all 
who might get to know; that she had broken through the 
compact not to see him again, and laid herself open to un- 
friendly comment. How should he interpret such conduct? 

“She is only a girl yet/' he said to himself at length, “and 
it is her nature to do quixotic things. I hope she will not 
be angry with herself when she gets older. She hasn’t real- 
ized yet the impassable gulf that lies between us, and the 
bridge I once dreamed of building can never be constructed 
now.” 

He tried his hardest to be philosophic, but it was a very 
difficult matter. Love’s young dream, to youth and maiden, 
is sweeter than anything else on earth; and Harry loved 
Monica with all the strength of a strong and earnest nature: 
loved her all the more passionately perhaps because she was 
beyond his reach, while her friendliness to him had added 
fuel to the fire. 

He' did not try to hide from himself the fact that she 
had shown him very marked favor. She had admitted -in 
her frank, girlish way that she cared more for him than for 
anyone else. Of course he knew that there was a very wide 
difference between the mere “liking” of a girl and the love 
of a woman. And yet, and yet, had he been free to take 
advantage of her friendship he believed in time it might grow 
into love. 

All that, however, was at an end now. The hope of win- 
ning success and renown had suddenly perished. He dared 
not contemplate the future. His only hope of endurance 
lay in trying to forget the past and refusing to anticipate 
the future. He would have to bear a day at a time, and so 
slowly live out the agony of life to its bitter end. 

Every now and then his heart rose up in bitter wrath 
against the man he called his father, and he would pace his 
cell in a state bordering on frenzy, but his anger did him 
no good; it only left him weak and nerveless and exhausted. 

A week later Robert Morton had summoned up sufficient 
courage to visit him in the county jail. It was with a sense 
of great relief that he had heard that at the trial before 
the" magistrates, Harry had said nothing to implicate him. 
He recovered rapidly from his rheumatism after that, and 


TO PAT THE PRICE. 


78 


the next day was able to get down stairs. But to visit Harry 
required an amount of strength and determination that he 
could not muster in a moment or in a day. 

Like a timid bather, he hesitated and hesitated, fearing 
to take the plunge. Yet all the while he was intensely, curi- 
ous to know what line of defence Harry intended to take. 
It had only recently occurred to him that his position was not 
quite so free from danger as he had at first imagined. If Harry 
chose to tell all he knew, he might be arraigned on the charge 
of being an accessory after the act. It could he easily shown 
that the debts Harry had liquidated were his, Robert's debts, 
though contracted on Harry’s account, and that threats of 
legal action had not been sent to his nephew but to him. 

All this if brought out at the trial might place him in 
a very awkward, not to say perilous, position, and though 
Harry’s punishment might be none the less, his might be 
considerably more. 

So anxious did he become at length that it broke down 
every other consideration. He must know the best or the 
worst, however painful might be the interview. 

He looked quite haggard and ill Avhen he was shown into 
Harry’s presence. 

Harry had felt sure that he would come sooner or later, 
and so was not in the least surprised when the door was 
thrown open and the guilty man staggered in. 

Robert had framed a little speech with which he intended 
to open the interview, but the sight of Harry standing calm 
and dignified and apparently unmoved, drove it completely 
out of his head. He made a violent effort to say something, 
but his tongue became suddenly dry and parched, and re- 
fused to move. The next moment a mist came up before his 
eyes and but for the nearness of the wall he would have stag- 
gered and fallen. 

Harry looked at him half pityingly, half angriH. The 
drawn, haggard face, the ashy lips, the bent shoulders ap- 
pealed irresistibly to his sympathy. Then the thought of 
the man’s treachery stabbed him like a knife; he drew him- 
self away a step or two lest he should be tempted to 
strike. 

Robert Morton saw the movement, and a tinge of color 
came back to his cheeks. 


VISITORS. 


79 


“I have been ill,” he gasped at length, “or I would have 
come to see you sooner .” 

“I have not pined for your company,” was the cold reply. 

“No, I suppose not. Still I am very sorry, as you may 
be sure, that things have turned out as they have.” 

“Indeed! I thought your plotting left no option.” 

“No one thought at the time,” he gasped in a low whisper, 
“that — that — he could possibly recover.” 

“Nevertheless, you provided for the contingency,” Harry 
said bitterly. 

“That was a, mere accident.” 

“Of which you seem quite willing that I should take the 
consequences.” 

“I have come to discuss that matter,” he said feebly. “If 
it were not for mother and the children I would not mind. 
You see they are all dependent upon me yet. For myself 
I do not care; but to drag them down — ” and he looked fur- 
tively at Harry to see the effect of his words. 

It was a master stroke of policy on his part, and showed 
that he knew Harry almost as well as Harry knew himself. 

For a while silence fell between them, then Robert be- 
gan again. 

“I own I am pretty much in your hands, and if you are 
hot for revenge you can make it very uncomfortable 
for me.” 

Harry pulled himself together in a moment, and an angry 
wave swept over his heart. The man’s cowardice and lack 
of magnanimity would come out in spite of everything. 

“It is well you have mother and Bob and the girls to hide 
behind,” he retorted wrathfully, “for such as you one need 
have no compunction.” 

“I have been a good father to you and the rest,” Robert 
answered with downcast eyes, “and if I got into debt it was 
for your sake. Moreover, the amount taken was no more 
than the Earl promised.” 

Harry relented again. There was truth, no doubt, in 
what he said, and on the whole he was weak rather than 
wicked. 

“You have evidently no intention of trying to release 
me?” Harry questioned after a pause. 

“I would do it but for the others,” was the reply. 


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“I doubt it,” Harry answered, turning and walking to 
the other end ol the cell. 

“One of us- must suffer, that’s certain,” Robert said; “you 
would get off much easier than I should, lor youth there is 
always an excuse, but never i'or an old man.” 

“it is not the years in jail that count,” Harry answered 
moodily; “but the years that follow; I have all my life before 
me.” 

“The world is big,” was the reply, “and the memory of 
men is short.” 

“It is easy for you to philosophize when your own skin 
is safe; but put yourself in my place.’’ 

“I own it is hard, and I am sorry from my heart.” 

“I think we have said enough,” was the reply. “No good 
can come of prolonging this interview. You can go home 
content. For the sake of mother and the girls and Bob I 
will let you escape. Now get away with you. I shall be 
happier when you are gone.” 

“And you have no message for the others?” 

“Yes, give them all my love. For yourself take warning 
by this, lest your treachery come home to rest.” 

Robert did not wait for any further words. With a sigh 
of relief he left the cell and hurried as quickly as possible 
along the echoing corridor, never slackening speed until he 
was safe out in the sunshine. 

A month later Harry was brought up at the assizes for 
trial. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE VICAR IS CONCERNED. 

HE great forgery case, as the local newspapers 
dubbed it, was very quickly disposed of. Never- 
theless it awakened a considerable amount of inter- 
est, not only in the county but in London itself. 
Most of the financial papers devoted leading articles to it, 
and the conduct of the cashier who accepted the check was 
very freely criticised, not only by the press, but by business 
men in going to and from the city. 

The forgery itself was denounced as the clumsiest fraud 
that any sane man ever attempted to perpetrate, and Harry’s 
conduct at the trial was declared to be of a piece with the 
rest of his conduct. Not a few charitably disposed people 
said that the young fellow was evidently out of his mind, 
and that the kindest thing would be to send him to a lunatic 
asylum. 

There was practically no defence at the trial. Harry saw 
clearly enough that any defence he might offer would only 
result in more or less incriminating Robert Morton, without 
releasing him. During the weeks he lay waiting for the trial 
he carefully weighed up all the pros and cons of the case, 
and when at length he stood before the judge his mind was 
quite made up. He resolutely refused to plead guilty.' In 
vain it was pointed out to him that if he did so it might ma- 
terially lighten the sentence. 

“A year or two more or less,” he said, “can make little 
difference. Besides I am not guilty, and why should I say 
I am?” 

The twelve jurymen knew better. They said without a 
dissenting voice that he was a rogue, and since he had de- 
clared he was innocent, he was therefore also a liar. The 
judge quite concurred in their view of the case. In face of 
the evidence any other view was impossible. For Harry to 
stand in the dock and assert that he was innocent, when the 
evidence proved to a demonstration that he was guilty, re- 



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vealed a depth of moral depravity that was most painful in 
one so young and so well brought up. 

The judge read him a lecture that might have moved a 
heart of stone, and which certainly brought tears into the 
eyes of some of the jurymen. An orfence against property is, 
in the eyes of English law, one of the greatest and most ter- 
rible of all crimes. A man may half starve his children and 
nearly batter his wife to death, and the chances are he may 
get off with a fine or even with a reprimand. But trespass 
against property — touch its sacred rights even with the tip 
of your little finger, and no fine will atone for the offence. 

A bagged pheasant or a trapped hare cannot be paid for with 
gold. 

Harry did not expect a light sentence. He knew that for- 
gery was not an ordinary crime; that it struck at the roots 
of commercial life and prope^, and that to deal leniently 
with it would be to undermine the very foundations on which 
were built our business relationships. The judge pointed ' 
out all this with great cogency and force. Nevertheless the 
fact that this was a first offence, that up to this time Harry 
had borne a good character — except that on one occasion he 
had savagely attacked the Vicar’s son — were points that had 
to be considered in his favor. 

Two years’ imprisonment with hard labor was the sen- 
tence pronounced, and no one thought it was a whit too heavy. 
Indeed, most people thought that the prisoner had every 
reason to congratulate himself on getting off so lightly. 

Elarry heard the sentence unmoved. On the whole it 
was a less term than he had expected; but he was in no mood 
to concern himself about a mere question of duration. One 
year or ten would make little difference. The fact that in 
the eyes of the law and the world he was a criminal, was 
the supreme thing. 

He never lifted his eyes to the people who were gazing 
at him from all parts of the court. He saw no individual 
face, nevertheless he was conscious that hundreds of eyes 
were bent upon him. He listened as in a painful dream while 
the judge was pronouncing the sentence, and then hurried 
quickly down the steps to the cells below, glad to escape the 
burning eyes of the crowd, glad of the shelter and twilight 
of his cell, 


TEE VICAR IS CONCERNED. 


m 

On the following morning the Vicar walked across to 
Graystone Hall to have an interview with the Earl. He was 
admitted without delay. Lord Menheriot was, in fact, ex- 
pecting him. The Earl looked little the worse for his ill- 
ness. He was a little grayer, perhaps, but his eyes were as 
bright and his manner as alert as ever. 

“I sought to have this interview,” the Vicar began, because 
I feel that in some sense the best interests of the parish are 
at stake.” 

“Really,” said the Earl dryly. 

“Well, the best interests of Graystone are, I think you 
will admit, wrapped up in the children, and to have set be- 
fore them right examples is of the utmost importance. Young 
people, as you know, are very impressionable.” 

“That is quite true,” said the Earl. 

“And that being so,” the Vicar continued, “it scarcely 
seems right and proper that Mr. Robert Morton should re- 
main as their instructor.” 

“But he has done no harm that I know of,” the Earl 
answered. 

“That is quite true, and in some respects it is a great 
pity that any man should suffer for the wrong doing of oth- 
ers, but society is so constructed that it is inevitable that the 
innocent should suffer for the guilty.” 

“Yes, that appears to be so,” his Lordship assented slowly. 

“Though in this case,” the Vicar went on, “I do not 
know that Robert Morton would suffer much through hav- 
ing to leave Graystone. We could give him excellent testi- 
monials and there would be no difficulty in his getting an- 
other school in some part of the country where he is not 
known. To be spoken of as the father of a convict is not a 
very nice thing for any man, and I am afraid that this 
will seriously affect the young people committed to his 
charge.” 

“Possibly that is so,” assented the Earl, “and yet I really 
do not see how we can take action in the matter.” 

“I should not think of dismissing him, of course,” the 
Vicar said, “but it might be pointed out to him that his in- 
fluence amongst the young people will have suffered seriously 
through the conduct of his son, and it might be suggested 
that under all the circumstances he migh{ be much more use- 


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ful, and a great deal happier, in some other part of the coun- 
try where he is not known.” 

“You mean, in other words, that he should be politely 
asked to resign.” 

“Well,” the Vicar said with a smile, “of course it amounts 
to that, and I fancy that under all the circumstances he will 
raise no objection, especially if we promise to giveliim good 
references.” 

“Well, Melville,” said the Earl getting up and walking 
about the room, “it is after all more your business than mine. 
I have not interfered in school affairs at all. You practically 
run the business and I think it best that I should keep out 
of the matter.” 

“On the contrary,” said the Vicar, “Mr. Morton thinks 
I am prejudiced against him. Possibly I ?m somewhat, par- 
ticularly on religious grounds. You may not be aware, but 
practically he is an infidel; he seems to have given up all 
faith in Christian doctrine, and under the circumstances ha 
does not seem to me altogether a suitable man to have in 
the parish.” 

“I don’t think we have any right,” said the Earl, “to in- 
terfere with a man’s beliefs. My policy is to let every man 
believe as he likes.” 

“That is all right enough in ordinary matters,” said the 
Vicar, “but when -the schoolmaster is expected to lead the 
singing in the church, and to lead the responses, and occa- 
sionally to preside at the organ, it becomes a very different 
matter. In such a case it is necessary that we should have 
a convinced Christian, and it seems to me now we may get 
rid of Mr. Morton without bringing any abuse down upon 
our heads.” 

“Very good,” said the Earl, “you can tell Mr. Morton 
that I agree with your view of the case, and shall act with 
you in the matter.” 

“Nay, nay, I am particularly anxious that the interview 
should not he with me, hut with you. You are on good terms 
with him. He comes here frequently to see you on business 
matters; you can open the question very much better than 
I- can, and I should be very much relieved if you would just 
hint to him what our feelings are on the question.” 

The Earl frowned and for several minutes did not reply. 


THE VICAR IS CONCERNED. 


85 


He felt as though, the Yicar were using him as a catspaw 
to pull his chestnuts out of the fire, and he rather resented 
being so used. The Yicar noticed his hesitancy, and was 
quick to divine the cause. 

“I can assure you cousin'” he said, speaking more famil- 
iarly than he had done, “it is 'not because I wish to shirk 
any unpleasant duty. I am the last man in the world to do 
that. I am simply anxious that Mr. Morton should be asked 
to resign in the kindest way,' and that he shall not think 
that it is through any ill feeling on my part.” 

“Well, at any rate I will consider the matter,” said the 
Earl. “I confess that of late I have not been altogether 
satisfied with him; he seems to have grown somewhat in- 
different, and does not attend to his work (I am speaking, 
of course, of the work he does for me) with the same earn- 
estness and zeal as he did at the beginning. 

“It is the nature of servants, whether public or private, 
to grow indolent with the lapse of time,” said the Yicar. 

“Possibly you are right,” and the Earl turned and walked 
toward the window as though as far as he was concerned 
the interview was at an end. 

Mr. Grant, however, had another matter on his mind 
that he was very anxious to talk over with his cousin. The 
position of Rupert was giving him considerable anxiety. As 
yet his son had succeeded in earning nothing, and the drain 
on the YicaEs purse was somewhat considerable. A young 
man of aristocratic connections and tastes is a somewhat 
expensive luxury which the Yicar found to his sorrow. More- 
over, he had now arrived at a marriageable age, and the Yicar 
saw clearly enough that if he could only arrange for a speedy 
marriage between Rupert and Monica, this source of anx- 
iety would be removed. He was therefore determined that 
as soon as the case of Harry Morton had been disposed of, 
he would approach the Eari and talk the matter over seri- 
ously with him. 

On the whole Lord Menheriot was not averse to discuss- 
ing the subject. Monica was no light responsibility. She 
had suddenly grown into a woman, and he hardly knew what 
to do with her. His wife, being a confirmed invalid and 
unable to leave her room, was not able to give her any at- 
tention whatever. Indeed, she required constant attention 


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herself, so that the Earl felt that it would be a relief to 
him to see his ward safely married, and as Eupert would in 
all probability become in time. Lord of Graystone estate, as 
well as of the smaller estate of Menheriot, from which he 
had taken his title, he was quite willing that a matrimonial 
alliance should be arranged between them. The only diffi- 
culty hitherto was that Monica had shown no striking pref- 
erence for the Vicar’s son. On the contrary, she expressed 
.herself in a way sometimes, that indicated that she rather 
disliked him, and much preferred that he should stay away 
from Graystone Hall. 

Lord Menheriot, however, did not attach a great deal of 
importance to what he termed the whim of a girl. With a 
very keen recollection of his own young days, he knew that 
girls often went by the rule of contrary, that they said with 
their lips what they did not mean in their hearts, and were 
frequently most distant with those whom they cared for the 
most. In fact, when a young girl was particularly fond of 
a man she often carefully avoided showing any preference for 
him. It might be so in the case of Monica. Her very indif- 
ference towards Eupert might be in appearance only; at heart 
she might be very fond of him. 

The Vicar opened the question with great diffidence. 

“Now that I am here,” he said, “and we are talking more 
or less confidentially, there is one matter that has been weigh- 
ing heavily upon my mind for some time past.” 

“Indeed,” said his lordship, returning suddenly from the 
window. 

“Well, naturally I am more or less concerned about the 
position of Eupert,” the Vicar said. “You know that he 
has succeeded in getting no position yet.” 

“He does not appear to me to have tried very hard,” 
the Earl said bluntly. 

“Of late I admit he has not been making very strenu- 
ous efforts,” the Vicar assented; “but earlier on, if you re- 
member, he spent very considerable time in London, and I 
believe did his best to get some position either as secretary 
to a cabinet minister, or some subordinate position in the 
diplomatic corps. But, as you know, good positions are not 
always easy to get, and he has nothing else to do but to hang 
about the law courts and wait for briefs, and, as you will 


TEE VICAR IS CONCERNED. 


87 


admit, waiting for briefs is a very trying business, especially 
when there are so many clever and puzhing men who aie 
ever elbowing their way in front of you/’ 

“And for him to live at home I presume you find a some- 
what expensive luxury,” the Earl said dryly. 

“Well, the salary is not great in the parish of Graystone.” 

“Eo, it is not great, but still it is not to be despised.” 

“I am not despising it by any means,” said the Vicar 
quickly; “still you will admit that it is quite natural that I 
should be somewhat concerned about Rupert’s future.” • 

“I think that the best thing that can be done with him 
is to fling him overboard,” said the Earl, “and let him Sink 
or swim for himself. If he is worth saving, I don’t think 
it likely that he will be drowned.” 

“I cannot say I agree with you in that,” returned the 
Vicar uneasily; “he has not been brought up to rough it, and 
if he has expectations in the future, of course, you will agree 
that it is not his fault.” 

“Still you know,” laughed the Earl, “that those who wait 
for dead men’s shoes fire in danger of going a long time bare- 
foot.” 

“I assure you,” said the Vicar with a flush, “that Rupert 
is the last man in the world who would desire to step into 
your shoes; indeed, he is most anxious that you should live 
to a green old age.” 

“It is very kind of him, I am sure,” the Earl returned 
with a smile. 

“But that is not the question exactly,” said the Vicar 
fidgeting in his chair; “you see if Rupert had imagination and 
were clever with his pen he might write novels as many 
young and briefless barristers do; but novel writing is hot 
at all in his "way. The only thing, therefore, for him to 
do is to contract a suitable marriage. If he can wed a lady 
with means of her own, he would be at once lifted above 
want, and all anxiety relative to ways and means would cease.” 

“Oh, I see what you are driving at,” laughed the Earl; 
“but by jove, my cousin, you have been a long time getting 
to it.” 

“I do not like to be precipitate on any question,” the Vicar 
said, clearing his throat and looking relieved. “I am glad, 
however, that we understand each other,” 


TO PAY TEE PRICE , 


£8 

“You refer, of course, to an alliance between Rupert and 
Monica?” questioned the Earl. 

“Exactly, that is the point I wish to get at — Monica is 
turned eighteen now, and is a woman. Rupert, of course, 
is very considerably older and would be from every point of 
view a most suitable partner for her. I think he has no 
vices to mention; he is strong and healthy and good tempered 
in the main, and fairly intelligent.” 

The Earl laughed. “I think, Melville,” he said, “we will 
take all his good qualities for granted, and his bad ones also. 
Now to be quite candid with you, I should be very pleased 
indeed if such an arrangement could be come to. The truth 
is, with Lady Menheriot a confirmed invalid and unable do 
take any part in the management of the house, or in the 
care of Monica, she is somewhat of a trial to me.” 

“No doubt she is. She is rather adventurous for one of 
her position,” suggested the Vicar. 

“Well, you see in a certain sense she is only one removed 
from the ranks. Her father, as you know, began life as a 
working man. She has imbibed some of his extremely radi- 
cal, not to say socialistic, opinions. She has no respect for 
position as position, and to be candid she does give me not 
a little anxiety.” 

“Then, as I understand it,” said the Vicar, “you would 
be quite willing to favor to the best of your ability, Rupert’s 
suit?” 

“I shall not press his claims unduly, you may be quite 
sure of that,” said the Earl; “still I will give him every 
opportunity of winning her hand, and if I can say a good 
word in his favor, or help on the match in any legitimate 
way, you may rely on my doing so.” 

“I am sure a word from you will go a very long way,” 
said the Vicar, “especially now that young Morton has been 
proved to be a rogue and a forger, and the penalty that he 
deserves has been meted out to him.” 

The Earl laughed shortly, but looked annoyed. 

“There never was any real difficulty in that direction,” 
he said. “Of course as children they were thrown a great 
deal together; the lad has come here constantly. I don’t 
mind saying it, I was very fond of him. I do not under- 
stand this last freak of his; it must have been a momentary 


THE YICAR IS CON CERNED. 


89 


aberration of the brain, because I have always found him 
honest and truthful/’ 

“But there is no doubt that Monica made a great deal 
of him/’ said the Vicar. 

“Yes, but Monica had no thought of love,” said the Earl; 
“she knew her position and his. A quixotic friendship be- 
tween boy and girl is not to be taken seriously. Now that 
it has ended so tragically for him, she will forget him as 
quickly as possible.” 

“I hope so indeed,” and the Vicar rose to take his leave. 
For a moment or two he hesitated, then walked to the door, 
then paused again with his hand on the door handle and said: 

“If I might suggest such a thing, my cousin, you might 
hint to Miss Monica that it would gratify a wish of yours 
if she could favor Rupert’s suit.” 

“Thank you,” said the Earl shortly, and he went and 
rang the bell. 

For some time after the Vicar’s departure Lord Menhe- 
riot continued to walk up and down the room. He did not 
altogether like the turn the conversation had taken. He 
was not enamored of the idea of dismissing Robert Morton. 
It was quite true that he had not been quite as attentive 
lately to his duties as previously, but possibly that was due 
to the great trouble that had come upon him. As a teacher, 
also, he was efficient and painstaking, and it did not seem 
altogether right to dismiss him because of any delinquency 
on the part of his son. He saw that there was a certain 
amount of force in the Vicar’s contention, and it was pos- 
sible that Robert Morton might be just as useful, and far 
happier, in some other part of the country where the news 
of his son’s forgery had not penetrated. Still, it was no 
Jight matter to deprive a man of his means of Subsistence, 
especially when no charge of neglect of duty could be brought 
against him. 

“It is a question I shall have to think about,” he said 
to himself, and for two or three days he continued to think 
about it without arriving at any definite conclusion. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE WAY OF DECEIT. 

NE evening, a week later, the Earl was sitting alone 
in his library intent upon a magazine, when a 
knock came to the door, and Robert Morion was 
announced. The Earl arose at once to receive his 
steward, and pointing to a chair asked him very politely to 
be seated. 

"Now,” thought the Earl, “the whole matter can come 
out, and if I can approach it with sufficient delicacy, I will 
do so. If I find, however, that it is impossible, I will hand 
it over to the Vicar to do his own work.” 

Robert Morton looked distressed and ill at ease, as though 
he had something on his mind that he was anxious to get 
rid of. 

“I am glad you have come Morton,” the Earl said, “there 
are several matters I wanted to talk with you about.” 

“I was afraid I might be intruding,” Robert said, “but 
I am glad to hear that you wish to see me.” 

“The Vicar and I have been talking over your relation to 
the church and school.” 

“I am glad. I wish to end it, my Lord, without delay. 
After what has taken place, I can never be happy here again. 
It is a great blow, and we want to bear it somewhere where 
we are not known.” 

“It seems a pity that you should suffer for your son,” 
said the Earl kindly. 

“My Lord, he was not my son.” The truth was out be- 
fore he was aware. 

The Earl started with a look of eager questioning in his 
eyes. “Not your son, did you say?” 

“Yes, my Lord, he was the son of my sister.” 

How easy it is to philosophize — or more correctly to plati- 
tudinize — on the importance of little things. A single word 
said or left unsaid may change the whole course of a life 
or of many lives, When Robert Morton walked to Graystone 



TEE WAT OF DECEIT. 


91 


Hall to see the Earl, he had no intention of telling him that 
Harry was not his son. It was not a matter as far as he 
knew, that concerned the owner of Graystone, or any one 
else. He was surprised when the Earl manifested consid- 
erable interest in the subject and pressed him for the place 
and date of Harry’s birth. 

Lord Menheriot was not an inquisitive man, and mani- 
fested very little interest in other people’s affairs. It was 
a cause of complaint in the county, that he kept himself so 
much to himself — that he entertained so little, and took such 
small interest in local and imperial politics. It was known 
of course that his wife was a chronic invalid, and never saw 
anyone except her attendants; but in the judgment of many 
people that was not a sufficient excuse for his living almost 
the life of a recluse. 

Eobert Morton had never known him to manifest such 
intense curiosity before. 

“You say that Harry is your sister’s son?” the Earl ques- 
tioned with a curious inflection in his voice, after Eobert 
had given some further particulars. 

“He is, my Lord; but I can assure you I have never made 
any difference in my treatment of him on that account.” 

“I can quite believe you, Morton.” 

“As a matter of fact, I have spent more on, him than 
on any of my own children,” Eobert went on, “and both my- 
self and my wife have been anxious that he should never 
know that he was only my nephew.” 

“And you say that his mother’s name was Ellen?” the 
Earl questioned, “and that he was born in London?” 

“That is so, my Lord,” Eobert answered, wondering more 
than ever at his lordship’s, curiosity, and yet drawn out by 
that very curiosity to enter more fully into details. 

“You see it was this way: my sister Ellen was an exceed- 
ingly pretty girl, and a lovely singer, and these two gifts, 
beauty and a good voice, were, in my judgment, her ruin.” 

“Why so, Morton?” the Earl asked eagerly. 

“Well, you see, she received so much flattery that it turned 
her head. She grew tired of our village life and pined for 
more excitement. Then nothing would do for her, but she 
must go to London. We lost sight of her then for some 
time. Then we heard that she had gone on the operatic 


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stage. This nearly killed my mother. My father had died 
some time previously / 7 

“Why should the fact of her going on the stage affect 
your mother so much ? 77 the Earl questioned. 

“Well, sir, five and twenty years ago, in our remote part 
of the country, theaters were looked upon as the last resort 
of abandoned men and women. We all of us gave up Ellen 
as utterly lost. We never communicated with her, or she 
with us. My mother never mentioned her name except to 
pray for her, and if that did no good to Ellen, it was a sort 
of relief to my mother / 7 

“Exactly, but go on Morton / 7 

“I am afraid, sir, I am tiring you with these details / 7 
“Not a bit of it. I am quite interested . 77 
“It is kind of you to say so; but there is not much more 
to tell. One day there came a little box of bride’s cake, 
and a brief letter announcing that she was married to a Mr. 
William Blunt, a gentleman of private means, and that she 
was not going on the stage any more. Well, we all hoped 
for the best, though my mother, who died soon after, was 
never satisfied. A year or so later my sister Jane got a let- 
ter from Ellen, saying she was ill, and begging her to come 
and see her, as her husband had been called away to Canada 
on business matters, and would not be back for several weeks. 
Well, Jane started off post haste, and found her in a nice 
little house in a quiet street somewhere in Holloway . 77 

“Yes ? 77 questioned the Earl, seeing that Robert paused 
with a far-away look in his eyes. 

“Well, Jane remained a fortnight, during which time 
Harry was born, and poor Ellen died and was buried / 7 
“And the husband ? 77 the Earl questioned. 

Robert gave a short, harsh laugh. “Oh! the husband? 
What would you expect? He never turned up, and, so far 
as I know, has never been heard of to this day . 77 

“But he may have been an honorable man, nevertheless / 7 
Robert laughed again, in the same hard way. “He may 
have been, of course, but men of means who marry poor girls 
from the country, never make themselves known to the girl’s 
relatives and have no relatives of their own, may generally 
be taken for what they are worth, and that in my judgment 
is not much, 77 ' 


TEE WA Y OF DECEIT. 


93 


“Then you doubt the legality of the marriage?” the Earl 
questioned. 

“Oh, no! in one sense the marriage was legal enough. I 
have the certificate somewhere. They were married by spe- 
cial license; but who William Blunt was, heaven only knows.” 

“Oh! I see you think Blunt was an assumed name.” 

“No doubt of it, sir. It is easy in a place like London 
for a man to change his name and impose on confiding 
women. He may be Mr. Jones in Holloway, Mr. Smith in 
Bayswater, and Mr. Robinson in Stratford.” 

“So you made no effort to find Harry’s father?” 

“Not likely, my Lord. Why should we? We made the 
best of it. When my sister Jane went out to China to marry 
a poor fanatic of a missionary to whom she was engaged, 
my wife and I took the child and brought him up as our 
own, and this is the end of it.” 

“It is very sad,” said the Earl reflectively. 

“And yet was anything better to be expected, my Lord? 
Taints of blood will come to the surface sooner or later. 
His mother a poor giddy woman, his father a deceiver, was 
it likely the child would turn out a saint?” 

Robert Morton could generally wax eloquent when he got 
on to moral themes. He had so often discussed with his 
neighbors of late “poor Harry’s fall,” that the role of purist 
had come quite easy to him. Indeed, he was getting, by al- 
most imperceptible stages, to believe fhat Harry was the 
guilty party after all. Just as people may tell a lie so often 
that in the end they accept it as a truth. So Robert, con- 
stantly assuming and hearing it assumed that Harry was a 
forger, began to accept it as a fact, and in some measure to 
resent the disgrace that he had brought upon the family. 

For several minutes neither he nor the Earl spoke again. 
Robert looked at his employer furtively out of the corners 
of his eyes, and wondered again why he should be so inter- 
ested in the story he had just told him. Hid he know any- 
thing, or was it merely another evidence of his old liking 
for Harry? 

The Earl was the first to break the silence. “Do you 
know, Morton,” he said slowly, “that I sometimes wonder if 
the lad has not been wrongly condemned.” 

Robert flushed, and turned uneasily in his chair, “It— 


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it would be an infinite relief to think so/’ he said; “but — but 
the evidence was so circumstantial.” 

“Yes, that is true,” the Earl answered, “I have exam- 
ined the chain of evidence bit by bit, link by link, and I can 
discover no flaw anywhere. And yet there are times when 
I do not feel altogether satisfied.” 

“You have expressed my position to a dot,” Robert said, 
after a pause; “but in my case I have assumed it arose from a 
natural affection for the boy; but in your case my Lord — ” 

“I have, always liked the lad,” the Earl interposed. And 
then he arose abruptly from his chair, as though to intimate 
that the interview was at end. “I shall see you again, of 
course, before you leave,” ho added, “and I sincerely trust 
that in your new life you will be successful.” 

“It will be a relief in any case, both for myself and the 
children, to get away where we are not known. It has been 
a terrible trouble to us, as you may imagino.” 

“Yes, I can fully sjunpathize with you, and am not at 
all surprised at your decision to leave Gfraystone.” 

Robert made his way back through the Park in a very 
sober mood. Hitherto he had played his cards with consid- 
erable skill; but success had brought him very little satisfac- 
tion. Every now and then a fit of compunction, like a cold' 
wave, swept over him and left him nerveless and depressed. 

Outwardly he had gained much by flinging morality to 
the winds. He had gained freedom. He was no longer de- 
pendent on the Earl or on his cousin the Vicar. He had 
gained self-confidence; he was not so mistrustful of his own 
abilities as he used to be. He had gained a knowledge of 
certain phases of commercial life that were unknown to him 
before, and more than all he had gained comparative wealth. 
In the short space of three’ months he had netted a little 
fortune, and all through stolen money. And what had he 
lost? Outwardly nothing. His reputation was as good as 
ever it was. His credit better. Looking at the matter cur- 
sorily he had every reason to congratulate himself. What a 
relief it was not to be compelled to look at every shilling 
he spent; to have no fear of dunning letters; to be able to 
run up to town whenever he felt disposed; to look forward 
to a speedy escape from the drudgery of the schoolhouse. 

“I ought to be as happy as the birds,” he said to him- 


THE WIT OF DECEIT. 


95 


self as he walked homeward through the twilight, and could 
he have kept his thoughts always in the groove we have indi- 
cated, it is possible he would have been fairly content. 

But in this respect he was not his own master. His 
thoughts persisted in going their own way in spite of him. 
He tried very resolutely to reflect only on his gains; but 
every now and then the sense of a great loss stole over him. 
He had lost the most precious of all possessions — his self re- 
spect. 

Try as he would to flatter himself that he was a very 
clever man; that he was a born financier and strategist, with 
much else of the same order, he invariably slid down the 
bank into the chill waters of self-contempt. He knew that 
* he was a hypocrite, a traitor, a coward, a cad. The world 
might judge him very differently. His wife might still look 
up to him and trust him implicitly. His children might hold 
his name in reverence. But there was no hiding the truth 
from himself. He knew he was deserving of the contempt 
of every honest and self-respecting man. 

On the day .before his departure from Graystone, he paid 
a final visit to the Earl. It was early in October, a warm, 
windless day, as though summer were loth to yield her hold 
upon the land. A silvery, luminous haze lay upon the Park 
and fields, and almost shut out the distant range of hills. 

“I shall miss the country/’ he said, with a little sigh. 
“There will be nothing like this in London.” 

And indeed the prospect in its way was as fair^as any- 
thing England could show. 

On the terrace in front of the Hall he came upon Monica 
and Rupert Grant walking slowly to and fro. Monica in- 
stantly left Rupert’s side and ran up and spoke to him. She 
rather liked the grave schoolmaster and steward, and since 
this great trouble had overtaken him, her heart had gone out 
to him in genuine sympathy. 

He was not too old a man to be touehed by girlish beauty. 
Her hair shone like gold to-day, washed as it was in the 
autumn sunshine, and the warm color that came suddenly to 
her cheeks as she caught sight of him, greatly enhanced her 
beauty. 

“I don’t wonder young Grant is fond of her,” Robert Mor- 
ton reflected. “One does not see so pretty a girl every day,” 


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and he sighed again. "It is very delightful to be young and 
— and in love.” 

Monica’s voice broke in upon his reflections like a strain 
of music. 

"Good afternoon, Mr. Morton, isn’t it a lovely day?” 

"It is, indeed. Miss Monica.” 

"And you are actually going to leave Graystone, I am 
told.” 

"Yes, I came up to say good-by to the Earl.” 

"I am so sorry,” she said, looking away across the Park. 
"There will be nothing left to remind me of the old days 
soon.” 

"Let us hope that the new days will be better,” he said, 
with a feeble smile. 

"Oh! I hate to think of the future,” she answered. "Win- - 
ter will be upon us directly.” 

He did not reply for a moment. He thought of the win- 
ter of life that was so surely overtaking him. When he spoke 
again, it was on an entirely different subject. 

Lord Menheriot received him with great friendliness. 

"So you are going away to-morrow?” he questioned. 

"Yes, most of our goods have been sent away already; 
but I wanted a final word before I left.” 

The Earl turned toward him in a listening attitude. 

"It was about the stolen money I wished to speak,” Rob- 
ert said, shifting uneasily in his chair. "I should feel very 
much more satisfied if you would allow me to refund the 
money as I am able.” 

"Why so?” 

"Well, it may be mere sentiment; but it is not merely 
the fact of the forgery that impresses me; bnt the fact that 
he has robbed you.” 

"Still you are not responsible for that.” 

"That is quite true, my Lord, and yet I feel very sensi- 
tive on the matter. When I took him as a baby, I received 
a hundred pounds with him which belonged to his mother. 
Unfortunately I made a bad investment of the money and 
lost it all, but that is nothing to the point: what I feel is 
that you are £250 out of pocket through — through him.” 

"But he is not your son.” 

"But he has been as a son to me. I have had his up- 


THE WAY OF DECEIT. 


OT 

bringing, and I did my best to train him in right ways, 
and if I failed it was not for want of trying. Anyhow, I 
feel as though I were responsible.” 

“Well?” the Earl questioned. 

“Well, my Lord, I have succeeded by dint of much econ* 
omy in saving £ 50 which I would let you have gladly as a 
first installment of the amount.” 

“My dear sir,” the Earl said rising suddenly to his feet, 
“the sentiments you ha^e expressed do you infinite ■ credit. 
They do indeed, and I shall think all the better of you for 
what you have said, but I could not allow such a thing for 
a moment.” 

“I would much rather you did,” Robert said, in tones of 
well feigned emotion. 

The Earl laughed a short, dry laugh. “I can assure you 
it is quite impossible,” he said. “I thank you for the offer. 
As I said before it does you great credit; but now let us 
drop the subject and not refer to it again. I shall always 
think of you as a very generous and disinterested man.” 

Robert winced, and the color very perceptibly deepened 
on his cheeks, and a few minutes later he took his leave. 

As he walked home through the Park, he felt as though 
he had left another remnant of his manhood behind him. 
He had landed himself in such a position, that anything 
like sincerity was absolutely impossible. By the very neces- 
sities of the case, his life from day to day had to be a studied 
and organized deceit and falsehood. “Good heavens! what 
a contemptible hypocrite I have become,” he said to himself, 
and he laughed a low, gurgling laugh. 

After a few moments he raised his hat and squared his 
shoulders. “I don’t suppose I’m a bit worse than other peo- 
ple,” he reflected. “We are all hypocrites in these days. 
Nothing else pays. But it requires cleverness to do the thing 
successfully,” and he laughed again. 

On the following morning he and his family took train 
for London. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A FAMILY ARRANGEMENT. 

ORD MEHHERIOT was in trouble. That was clear 
to every one who came into contact with him. 
What the trouble was no one knew, and he was 
not the kind of man to take people into his con- 
fidence. The surprising thing was, however, that the' trou- 
ble— whatever it might be — appeared to date from the going 
away of Robert Morton. Why the loss of the schoolmaster 
should affect him no one could understand, and yet if it was 
not that, what else could it be? His wife was no worse than 
she had been for years. Monica had given over playing 
“Tom-boy” and shocking the Vicar and. his wife and other 
respectable people, and had settled down into a painfully 
quiet and docile young lady. His health was quite re-estab- 
lished, and his doctor anticipated no further trouble on that 
score provided he took care of himself. Yet notwithstanding 
all this he was not his usual self. When he was not absent- 
minded, he was irritable and cross. 

A week after Robert Morton’s departure, he took a jour- 
ney into Devonshire and remained away several days. The 
Vicar wondered, and scented a mystery. Robert Morton 
hailed from some obscure part of Devonshire. The Earl. be- 
gan to show signs of irritability directly the schoolmaster left 
Graystone. Could there be any connection between the two? 

The Earl appeared to be in no better frame of mind on 
his return. In fact, he seemed .more perturbed than before, 
and after remaining home a few days went off to London, and 
instead of returning the same evening spent nearly a week 
there. This, if it did not interest anyone else, perplexed the 
Vicar a good deal. Parliament was not sitting at the time. 
Mayfair was empty, consequently there seemed no earthly 
reason whv he should spend nearly a week in a place that he 
so cordially disliked. 

On his return from London he shut himself mostly in 
his own room and was rarely seen except at meal times. The 



A FAMILY ARRANGEMENT. 


90 


Vicar made two distinct and determined attempts to se- 
cure an interview with him; but without success. 

“Will you ask Mr. Grant to call again, and tell him I 
am very much engaged just now.” 

This was the word sent on each occasion and the Vicar 
did not like it. In fact he strongly resented it, and would 
very much have liked an opportunity of showing the Earl 
that he was not at all pleased. 

Rupert shared his father’s anxiety. He had expected 
everything to go on swimmingly between himself and Mon- 
ica, instead of which his path seemed more completely blocked 
than ever. Evidently the Earl had said nothing to Monica 
about the matter, and instead of smoothing the way for him 
to that young lady’s hand and heart, he did not even invite 
him across to dinner or show the slightest interest in his 
welfare. 

Thrown upon his own resources, Rupert made almost 
daily efforts to gain access to Monica’s presence; but gen- 
erally without success. Monica seemed in danger of becom- 
ing almost as great a recluse as her guardian. Rupert 
watched for her in vain out of doors. The long rambles in 
which she used to take such a delight were discontinued. 
Her pony went unsaddled from week’s end to week’s end. 
Even her favorite flower beds received little or no attention 
from her. 

Rupert wondered if she was really fretting over the fate 
of Harry Morton, and grew uneasy at the thought. On the 
few occasions, however, when he succeeded in getting an 
interview with her, she was more than usually gracious with 
him. Her old habit of snubbing and criticising him had 
given place to something entirely different. Instead of talk- 
ing herself, she would listen quietly while he talked, and 
instead of contradicting him, she assented to nearly every- 
thing he said. 

In reality, the only thing he really cared for was Mon- 
ica’s money, and for the sake of her money he was quite 
prepared to take her and run all risks. He liked her after 
a fashion. She was undeniably pretty and fresh and whole- 
some, and had he been a young fellow of twenty-one and 
Monica the first pretty girl that had come in his way, he 
would no doubt have fallen madly in love with her. 


u*ra 


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But lie was over twenty-one, and Monica’s was not the 
first pretty face he had seen, consequently his passion was 
not beyond his control, nor was his desire that such affec- 
tion as he had should be reciprocated of a very urgent 
nature. 

Life was a compromise. No man could get all he wished. 
A judicious blend was perhaps in the long run the most 
satisfactory and satisfying. An overmastering and over- 
whelming love was no doubt a very grand thing, and a young 
man of twenty would perhaps put it before everything else. 
But he had lived long enough to see that love was not every- 
thing. In the rough and turmoil of life, many things were 
needed, and not the least of them gold. 

Monica had money and plenty of it; and though he 
might never love her madly, he could love her quite suffi- 
ciently. She might love him in the same calm, undemonstra- 
tive way, and, from what he had heard, such love was even 
more likely to survive the wear and tear of life than the 
more passionate kind. 

His wooing, therefore, would be of a strictly businesslike 
and matter of fact kind. On reflection he was not quite 
sure, supposing that Monica had lost her heart to Harry 
Morton, that it might not work out to his advantage. That 
little romance- — if it was — was for ever at an end now. If 
she were ever in love with Harry, she would have quite real- 
ized by this time that such love was utterly hopeless. Hence 
if she married at all, it would be purely a family arrange- 
ment and that was just where his chance came in. 

So, after a few weeks, Bupert plucked up his courage 
and began to take a more hopeful view of the situation. He 
would have to make himself as agreeable as possible to Mon- 
ica, to humor her at every possible opportunity, and by and 
by, when the Earl suggested to her — as he doubtless would — 
that such an alliance would be a desirable arrangement, she 
would no doubt fall in with his wishes and the matter would 
be settled. 

In adopting this view Rupert showed considerable knowl- 
edge of human nature. As a matter of fact, Monica was in 
that condition of mind that she did not much care what 
happened to her. If Lord Menheriot had told her to get 
ready to marry Rupert Grant the following week, she would 


A FAMILY ARRANGEMENT . 


101 


have done so. She was in the mood to make a martyr of 
herself. 

For the moment, nothing seemed worth troubling about 
or contending for. She had awakened to the fact that Harry 
Morton had been everything in the world to her; that all 
the romance of her life had been woven round his name; 
that in all her castles he had been lord and king. How the 
world seemed empty. She had nothing to live for or care 
for. The entire outlook was prosaic and commonplace, a 
dreary landscape without color or sunshine or warmth. 

It was a month after Robert Morton had taken his de- 
parture that the Earl called Monica one afternoon into his 
study. Whatever might be the nature of the problem that 
had vexed him during the last four weeks, he had evidently 
solved it. The look of perplexity and indecision had gone 
from his eyes and had given place to an expression of quiet 
determination. After a long battle with himself, he had 
at last made up his mind, and he looked all the more cheer- 
ful in consequence. 

“You are not busy this afternoon, are you, Monica?” he 
asked deferentially. 

“Hot at all. I am quite at your service. Do you want 
some letters written?” 

“Well, not to-day, thank you. The truth is I wanted 
to have a little talk with you.” 

“Oh! I shall be delighted, for the house has been ter- 
ribly quiet lately.” 

• “That is true, Monica. I am sure you must find it ter- 
ribly dull. I often feel quite sorry for you, and yet what 
can I do? With Lady Menheriot in the condition she is, 
it is impossible to have company here; for the same reason 
we cannot travel — ■” 

“Please, Guardy, I am not complaining,” she interposed. 
“I am not, really. I am just as happy here as I should be 
anywhere else, and I don’t want to travel or go into society, 
I really don’t.” 

“Still, 'at present I am afraid your life is somewhat aim- 
less,” he said after a pause, “and that cannot be good you 
know.” 

“Yes, I suppose it is aimless,” she said, reflectively. 
''There doesn’t seem much to live for, does there? But that’s 


102 


TO PAY THE PRICE. 


generally the ease with girls, isn’t it? I. really don’t see 
what good we are in the world — I mean girls like me. If 
I were a man I could do something.” 

“Could you?” he said, with a smile, “I’m not sure of that. 
There are plenty of men who find ‘doing something’ — ex- 
cept mischief— utterly beyond their powers.” 

“Oh, yes, that may be; but they’ve no grit in them. I’ve 
no patience with young men who idle away their life at 
home.” 

“But if all the situations are filled?” he questioned, with 
a smile. 

“Then I’d make others.” 

“I’m afraid, Monica, that’s not so easy as you imagine.” 

“Oh! I don’t know. I think it is a horrible misfortune 
to be born rich, and worse still to he horn with expecta- 
tions.” 

“Of wdiom are you thinking, Monica?” 

“Oh, no one in particular,” she answered with averted 
eyes, “only it seems to me that nearly all the people who do 
any real good in the world are those who start with noth- 
ing. It’s just the fact that I have money that keeps me 
from being a milliner or a dressmaker, and condemns me 
to idleness and uselessness.” 

“I’m afraid you are getting pessimistic, Monica. You’ve 
been left too much alone lately.” 

“Oh no! I’ve not. I like being alone. Bad as one’s 
own company is, it is much better than most people’s.” 

“Not if you brood and grow morbid and get false and 
distorted views of life.” 

She raised her eyebrows and laughed. “I thought I was 
getting quite correct views of life,” she answered. “Isn’t it 
true that lots of money or great expectations are bad for 
young people?” 

“Not necessarily,” he answered. “It all depends on what 
kind of young people they are. Some of our greatest men 
— statesmen and others — were born rich and with great ex- 
pectations.” 

“But look at the greater number of poor who have made' 
their mark in the world. Think of a manlike Mr. Edison, 
for instance.” 

“I have no wish unduly to discount your argument, Mon- 


A FAMILY ARRANGEMENT , 


103 


ica,” the Earl said with a smile; “but poverty is not always 
a spur to people, even when they have ability and excellent 
opportunities. The number of wrecks is appalling .” 

“I know who you are thinking of,” she said with a little 
gasp. “You are thinking of Harry Morton.” 

“Alas! he is only one of the many,” the Earl answered 
with averted eyes. 

“You mean that there are crowds of people more sinned 
against than sinning?” 

“Ho, Monica, I did not mean that. I meant simply that 
poverty often creates temptations that, shall I say, are almost 
irresistible?” 

“Then you still believe that Harry Morton forged that 
check?” 

“I’m bound to believe it,” he answered, looking dis- 
tressed. “There was no one else that could have done it.” 

“Isn’t that what the newspapers call begging the whole 
question?” she asked, with a pathetic smile. 

The Earl walked to the window and did not answer for 
some time. Then facing suddenly round he said, 

“It was not for this I wished to see you this afternoon, 
Moncia. Our conversation has taken an unexpected turn.” 

“Indeed?” and she waited for him to go on. 

“We commenced by talking about aims in life,” he said 
after an awkward pause. 

“And suggested that I was quite innocent of anything 
of the kind,” she said with a pout. 

“Did I? Well that was rude of me. Perhaps also I 
was mistaken — ■” 

“Oh no! you were quite right,” she interrupted. “I’m as 
innocent of aims as the law is of justice.” 

“You are becoming cynical, Monica, but let that pass.” 

“Ho, I’m not, but I’m serious.” 

“I am glad to hear you say so, and taking it for granted, 
would it not be possible for you to have an aim that should 
be quite legitimate and worthy, and which would give dig- 
nity and meaning to all your future conduct?” 

Monica looked up with a little start and wondered what 
the Earl was driving at. 

“Please go on,” she said, with a little laugh, “for I am 
really curious to know what you are going to propound.” 


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“Well,” lie said, shifting about in an uncomfortable way, 
“is it an unworthy ambition to be a good man’s wife, to 
be the light and inspiration of a home?” 

“Why do you ask that question?” she said sharply. 

“Well, I have thought that if some arrangement could 
be come to that would give definiteness to your future, that 
would give you something to look forward to — it might 
very much increase your happiness.” 

“You want to dispose of me, do you?” she said half jest- 
ingly, half seriously. “Tired of the responsibility, eh 
Guardy? Well, I suppose I have been a lot of trouble to 
you.” 

“No, no, my child. In many ways you have been a 
great comfort to me. But with Lady Menheriot in the state 
she is. this is but a gloomy place for you, and if I could 
see you happily married, though I should miss you terribly, 
I should at the same time rejoice.” 

“FJ1 do anything you wish,” she said, with a touch of 
recklessness in her tone. “I suppose you know of someone 
who is willing to take me off your hands.” 

“Rupert will come into possession of Graystone some 
day,” the Earl said uneasily. 

“I had a guess that that was the egg that was being 
hatched,” she answered a little bitterly. “Well, I don’t 
know as it matters much so long as he knows the truth be- 
forehand.” 

“What do you refer to?” he questioned. 

“That it is a purely business affair, arranged for family 
and state reasons, and that anything like love is not in the 
reckoning.” 

“But you like Rupert?” he questioned raising his eye- 
brows. 

“I neither like nor dislike him,” she answered. “If I 
have to marry somebody, he will do as well as anyone else.” 

“Rupert is very fond of you,” he replied, “and I am sure 
on the whole he is an excellent fellow.” 

“Oh! let us not discuss Tiis qualities, Guardy, or we might 
quarrel,” she said, the tears rising suddenly to her eyes. 
“When do you want the affair to come off?” 

“My child, you misunderstand me altogether,” he an- 
swered in a tone of concern. “There is plenty of time yet. 


A FAMILY ARRANGEMENT. 


105 


you would have something to look forward to and live for. 
I was only suggesting that if you and Rupert were engaged 
Rupert is very anxious on the question.” 

“And so he has got you to intercede for him?” 

“Well no, not exactly. The matter has been in my mind 
for a long time past.” 

“I wonder Rupert has not spoken to me.” 

“I fear you have given him very little opportunity, Mon- 
ica. You have been a good deal of a recluse lately.” 

“I think Fll go and look for him and tell him that 
everything has been arranged,” she said with trembling lip. 

“Surely Monica — ” 

“Why not?” she said hotly. “Oh! I don’t mind a bit. 
It’s a pure matter of business, and there can be no impro- 
priety in telling him that we’ve talked the matter over and 
settled everything.” 

“But surely — ” 

“I can assure you I’m most obedient,” and she went and 
pulled open the door and passed out into the hall, where 
she came face to face with Rupert Grant, 


CHAPTER XIV. 

RUPERT’S VISIT. 

ONICA’S eyes were bright with unshed tears; 
her lips were white and trembling; her heart was 
throbbing violently. She had put the worst pos- 
sible construction on Lord Menheriot’s words. She 
was angrier with him than she had ever been in her life 
before. She wondered now that she had kept so cool in his 
presence. Her wounded pride had turned to recklessness; 
she would have welcomed an earthquake that would have 
swallowed her up and all Graystone along with her. 

“So he’s tired of me, is he?” she thought bitterly; “thinks 
I’m a burden and in the way; wants to get me married and 
off his hands. God pity all orphans,” and her eyes threat- 
ened to run over. 

Her first impulse was to rush into Rupert’s arms and 
tell him everything; ask his protection and suggest that he 
should marry her right off. 

But second thoughts came to her rescue. “Good after- 
noon, Rupert,” she said, making a great effort to steady her 
voice. “Your cousin is in his study,” and rushing upstairs 
she went at once to her own room and locked the door be- 
hind her. 

Girl like' — for she was only a girl yet — she flung her- 
self on the bed and gave way to a violent paroxysm of weep- 
ing. 

It seemed to her as if everything jvas wrong. Life was 
a cheat from beginning to end. Nothing happened as one 
desired; all the world was at cross purposes. 

“Oh, I wish I were dead!” she moaned. “Why was I al- 
lowed to live, when father and mother were not allowed to 
live to take care of me? Oh, I do believe I hate everything 
and everybody!” 

She got up at length and bathed her face in cold water; 
but she could not cool the raging fire in her heart. 

Then her thoughts turned to Harry Morton, and she 



RUPERTS VISIT. 


10 1 


sat down in an easy chair and cried again. But they were 
not tears of anger now; but tears of pity. 

“Poor Harry !”" she moaned; “my sufferings are nothing 
to his. Perhaps he will die. Oh, I hope he will! IPs far 
better that he should die than live disgraced, and Pd rather 
think of him sleeping quietly and untroubled in his grave, 
than suffering as he is doing. Oh! I wish that he could 
die and that I could die with him; then there would be rest 
and peace for us both,” and she wrung her soft, white hands 
together, and her tears flowed afresh. 

“But there’s no dying,” she went on after a long pause. 
“People can never die when they want to. I shall live to 
be a hundred, I expect, just because I don’t want to live 
at all. Oh dear! I wonder what I had better do,” and she 
knitted her brows and a look of perplexity came into her 
bright, tearful eyes. 

“I shall have to live out my life somehow,” she reflected 
after a long pause. “And I suppose I shall have to marry 
somebody — that seems about all that girls are for— we are 
all slaves and there is no escaping. Guardy has set his heart 
on Rupert, that’s clear, and I suppose I shall have to give 
in. Things will be terribly uncomfortable if I don’t.” 

And she got up and began to pace up and down 
the room. 

“Of course I shall never see Harry again,” she went on. 
“The fact that I know he is innocent can make no differ- 
ence., Nobody else believes in him. He will be an outcast 
to the end. I expect he will go abroad and change his 
name and try to forget, and hope to be forgotten. Perhaps 
I shall forget him in time — perhaps I shall — but oh, no! I 
don’t want to forget him,” and the tears welled up into her 
eyes again. 

Meanwhile Rupert and the Earl were having a confabula- 
tion below. 

“I’ve done all I can for you in this matter, and all I 
intend to do,” the Earl said, in a tone that had in it a shade 
of irritation. 

“But she keeps me a't such an infernal distance,” Rupert 
replied petulantly. 

“I thought she was very civil to you.” 

“Oh, yes! she is all that, and of late she has been as 


108 


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docile as a kitten; but hang it, a fellow can’t make love when 
she meets you in that cold-blooded way.” 

“But you don’t expect all the warmth to be on her side 
surely?” 

“No I don’t expect that either; hut I tell you candidly, I 
don’t make any headway with her.” 

“Well, perhaps you will, now that she knows what my 
wishes are in the matter.” 

“Did she raise any 'objection?” 

“None whatever.” 

“Didn’t try to take the bit between her teeth and bolt.” 

“No, she seemed to look at the matter in a common-sense 
way.” 

Rupert looked relieved, and showed his teeth, which 
means that he tried to smile. 

“And you think she’ll fall into my arms?” 

“No, I don’t. She is not the kind of girl to fall into 
your arms. Whatever kind of fool you make of yourself 
before her, don’t play the sentimental fool.” 

“My dear sir — ■” 

The Earl laughed cynically. “I’ve said all I have to 
say on ihe question. Now let us change the subject.” 

Rupert bit his lip and a few minutes later took his de- 
parture. 

It was not until nearly a week later that Rupert got an 
opportunity of broaching the matter to Monica. She was 
alone in the drawing room when he was announced. She 
was paler than usual; but she never looked prettier, and 
Rupert fancied that he had never seen her dressed with such 
perfect taste. 

“By Jove,” was his thought, “she is not a girl that any 
fellow need feel ashamed of. It’s hardly to be expected 
that she will know her way about like — like — well, like girls 
brought up in the city. But she’ll soon get over her country 
ways, and besides that fortune of hers atones for everything.” 

Monica greeted him very cordially, and if her smile was 
sadder than usual, it only added to her charms. 

“I hope you are well, Monica,” Rupert said, trying to 
throw a note of solicitude into his voice. “You look a little 
pale — by Jove, you do.” 

“I’m very well, Rupert, thank you. Won’t you sit down?” 


RUPERT’S VISIT. 


109 


“I will with pleasure. I’m awfully pleased to find you 
disengaged for once.” 

“Oh, I'm often disengaged,” she said with a plaintive 
little laugh. “Indeed, 1 frequently wish that I had a good 
deal more to do than I have.” 

“You should mention the matter to my Mater, Monica. 
She’d give you parish work to do in abundance.” 

“I’m afraid I’m not fond of parish work — at least such 
parish work as your mother indulges in.” 

“She does it rather strong, doesn’t she? but you see she’s 
built that way. It’s an awful good thing that everybody 
is not made alike.” 

“Yes, I suppose so. The world’s dull enough as it is.” 

“By Jove, you are right, Monica. Yes. This is an aw- 
fully dull place, don’t you think so now?” 

“It is dull. You see there are so many dull people in it.” 

Rupert looked at her suspiciously; then laughed in a 
feeble, half-hearted way. He was never quite certain if 
Monica was sincere, or whether she was only poking fun at 
him. 

“You did not mean that last remark of yours to be per- 
sonal, of course, Monica,” he blurted out at length; “though, 
by J ove, I do believe I’m dull when I’m with you. But you 
see it’s this way — •” 

“Oh! don’t apologize, Rupert,” Monica interposed, with a 
mischievous look in her eyes. “Nobody can help being him- 
self, you know.” 

“No, of course, not — that is — but really, Monica, I don’t 
quite see what you are driving at. If you mean that — ” 

“Oh! I mean nothing in particular,” she said laughing. 

“But I mean a great deal, Monica. I’m in deadly earn- 
est. You might see that if you only took the trouble to 
look at me.” 

“And what’s made you so earnest all at once? Have you 
a case coming on at the next assizes?” 

“Unfortunately no. Briefs somehow don’t come my way. 
Not that I worry myself much about that. You see nature, 
or providence, or whatever it may be, never intended me to 
be a working barrister.” 

“And have you discovered yet what nature did intend 
you to be?” 


tio 


To PAY TUP PJilCP. 


“Oh yes! I think so. The fact is, Monica, Fve had quite 
an inspiration, if one may so speak. I feel that my place 
is here. Here with my cousin and — and you.” 

“Indeed?” 

The single word chilled Rupert like a blast of east wind. 
Somehow he never got near the point, but she switched him 
off again, or chilled him with silence. 

He rose from his chair and took two or three turns 
around the room. When he was by himself, pro- 
posing seemed the easiest thing in the world. He 
could think then of a hundred things to say. He 
could compose love-speeches by the yard. But directly he got 
into Monica’s presence, all his wits seemed to evaporate. He 
felt stupid and awkward, and had scarcely a word to say for 
himself. 

He was not lacking in courage, however, and a certain 
doggedness of disposition stood him in good stead. After 
a minute or two he came back and sat down again. 

“Look here, Monica,” he said desperately. “I want to 
have a serious talk with you. I do indeed.” 

“Very good, Rupert,” she answered without lifting her 
eyes. “I am all attention.” 

“But the mischief is, Monica, that you never seem in- 
terested in me,” he answered with a touch of asperity in his 
tone. 

“I do not know why you should say that,” she answered. 
“I do not think that I have shown myself to be in any way 
disagreeable.” 

“Ho, not disagreeable, I would not suggest that for a 
moment; but you must surely know what has been in my 
mind and heart for a very long time.” 

She raised her eyes slowly to his and smiled. 

“Do you credit me, then, with having the gift of second 
sight?” she answered. “How should I know of what you 
are thinking?” 

“My actions should surely speak plainly enough,” he 
said. “I have shown you in a hundred ways how deeply I 
am interested in you.” 

“I am much obliged, I am sure, for your solicitude,” she 
answered, in the same quiet, half-bantering tone. 

“Solicitude is not the right word, Monica. Has not my 


RUPERTS VISIT. 


Ill 


cousin talked to you on a matter that very nearly relates to 
my happiness, if it does not relate to yours?” 

“Yes, to be quite frank, he has spoken to me.” 

“Well, that is the very matter that 1 came across to talk 
to you about this afternoon.” 

She looked at him again and smiled. 

“You have been certainly a very long time in getting 
to the subject,” she said. 

“That is just because you keep me at such a distance. 
Every time I try to get near the subject, you shunt me off, 
as it were, on to some other line.” 

“I must be a very dreadful person indeed,” she remarked 
quietly. “I did not know that I had a faculty for shunting 
people.” 

“Oh! when you like you can be as cold as an iceberg,” 
he answered, “and you must know by this time that my 
heart is on fire with love for you.” 

“Don’t tell lies, Rupert,” she said with a smile; “you 
know that that is pure exaggeration.” 

“Oh Monica! how can you answer me in that way. I 
have been pining for weeks for a smile from you. Your love 
is the one thing in the world that I long for, and yet you 
tell me flatly that you do not believe me.” 

“When you say that your heart is on fire with love for 
me I am bound to say so. It is possible that you like me 
very well, as I like you, but to talk about loving me is alto- 
gether wide of the mark.” 

“But it is not wide of the mark,” he answered desper- 
ately. “I love you passionately; love you with my whole 
heart and soul.” 

“Oh come, Rupert,” she answered, smiling at him 
again; “we shall never get on if you talk to m£ in that 
way. You said just now that you wanted to talk to me 
seriously.” 

“And isn’t this serious talk?” he answered. 

“No. this is mere wild romance,” she said. 

“Then you don’t believe that I care for you in the least?” 
he answered. 

“Oh, yes I do. I think you. like me very well, as well 
perhaps as you like a dozen or twenty other girls of your 
acquaintance,” 


112 


TO PAY THE PRICE. 


He got up suddenly from the chair and began to pace the 
room again. 

“I did hope that you would have received me differently 
from this/’ he said petulantly; “for Fm dying to win your 
love.” 

“Oh! do talk sensibly, Rupert, or I shall leave you, I 
shall indeed.” 

“I do not see much use in talking to you at all,” he said 
lowering his voice; “I had hoped that you might feel toward 
me something of what I feel toward you. It has been my 
dream for months and months that in some way I might 
win your love and that you might promise to be my wife.” 

“You have never asked me to be your wife yet,” she said. 

“How can I ask you when you do not even believe that 
I love you?” 

“Love and marriage are not necessarily connected, I sup- 
pose,” she said a little bit cynically. 

“Then do you mean to say that you would consider mar- 
riage without love?” he said stopping suddenly in front of 
her, with a look of astonishment in his eyes. 

“As far as I understand it, marriages in these days are 
a mere matter of family or business arrangement,” she sai(^ 
“The affair is frequently settled by the elders; the young 
folk have very little voice in the matter.” 

“And you believe in that method of settling the busi- 
ness, do you?” 

“tto, I can’t say I do; but if it is settled for one, why 
I suppose one has to obey, at least in many instances.” 

“Then you mean to say that if your guardian desired 
that you and I should marry, you wouid not raise any strong 
objections?” 

“I told him when he mentioned the matter to me, that 
I would do exactly as he wished. He expects that I shall 
marry somebody, and I think I would rather marry you, 
Rupert, than anybody felse of my acquaintance. You see if 
I objected to you, somebody I liked much less might be forced 
upon me.” 

“I hope there is no forcing in the question,” he said 
dubiously. “I am sure my cousin wishes you to do what 
you think best.” 

“Well, I have thought the matter out during the last 


RUPERT'S VISIT. 


113 


few days, and I have come to the conclusion that if you par- 
ticularly want to marry me, I do not think I shall raise 
any very strong objections. It seems quite clear that my 
guardian is anxious to be free from the responsibility of my 
presence. I am only a girl. I have very few friends in 
the world; he says that you are good and kind, and that 
you would do your best to make me comfortable/ 7 

“I will devote my life to making you happy, Monica/ 7 
he said interrupting. 

“No, you will never make me happy/’ she answered. “I 
shall never be happy any more. I don’t expect to be. I 
don’t know that I want to be. If I can be useful in some 
way, that is my highest ambition.” 

“Oh! that is nonsense, Monica,” he replied. “I will care 
for you so much and watch over you so tenderly, that you 
will be as happy as a bird.” 

“I think that we will not discuss that question, Rupert,” 
she said. “It is a mere family arrangement, entered into 
at the wish of my guardian, and yourself. If you are pre- 
pared to take me, you must take me as I am. I cannot 
promise to love you. I have no love to give anyone.” 

“But why cannot you love me, Monica? I don’t think 
I am such a bad-looking fellow,” he said, with a little hesi- 
tancy. 

“Oh! your looks are right enough, Rupert,” she said; “hut 
love is not dependent upon looks.” 

“No, not alcogether, I suppose; and so I shall hope that 
by being good tor you and' kind, and showing you how dear 
you are to me, in time you will love me for my own sake.” 


CHAPTER XY. 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

EANWH1LE, Robert Morton was spreading himself 
like a green bay tree. From the day he first flung 
morality to the ; winds and descended to forgery, 
his good luck, as he termed it, had never left him. 
On the contrary, the more he speculated the more fortunate 
he appeared to become. Literally, everything he touched 
turned into gold. 

When he first went to London, he took a small house 
in .Stroud Green, and, having .sold a portion of his “Bon- 
sons,” he invested the money" in American railway stock, 
which yielded him a steady 5 per cent. This, he resolved 
to let remain, so that he might have something to fall back 
upon, in case his good fortune deserted him. With the bal- 
ance, he went into partnership with his old companion, and 
they started business as outside brokers, general speculators . 
and company promoters. 

Robert Morton, having a thousand or two to spare through 
his fortunate speculation in Bonsons, plunged readily into 
the first venture that opened. As it happened, this proved 
almost as fortunate a speculation as Bonsons, and in a few 
days he was able to sell out again, with a very considerable 
margin of profit. 

After a while, he joined a syndicate for the purpose of 
purchasing a large machinery trust. This syndicate asked 
the British public to subscribe £100,000 more than they gave 
for the trust in question, and as the British public is very 
confiding in such matters, and the prospectus set forth a 
number of considerations which showed that this particular 
machinery trust would be a very excellent investment, the 
capital was subscribed with great readiness, and when the 
full amount of shares had been allotted, Robert Morton and 
his partner came out of the affair with more thousands in 
their pockets than they had ever possessed before. 

The Yicar read accounts of the syndicates that had been 



TEE WAY OF TEE WORLD. 


US 


formed, and the companies that had been floated by these 
men; but neither he nor the Earl ever imagined for a mo- 
ment that it was the Morton they knew. Robert was very 
careful to. keep his past history in the dark. He told no 
one the story of his schoolmastering days; he might have 
been on the Stock Exchange from his very childhood, from 
anything he ever said to the contrary. He tried to shut off 
the past completely; to sever all connection with it; he looked 
back upon it as upon a bad dream. 

Now and then, the thought of what he had done would 
obtrude itself, and in his quiet moments he would remem- 
ber Harry languishing somewhere in one of Her Majesty’s 
jails. He never attempted to communicate with him; he 
had not the courage, nor did he receive any missive from the 
silent cell in which Harry spent his days. Whether the pris- 
oner were living or dead, no. one in the family knew, and, so 
far as appearances went, Madge was the only one who much 
cared. Whenever the name of Harry was brought up in the 
family circle, it was quickly dropped. Robert avoided all 
allusion to him, and Mrs. Morton, seeing how it pained her 
husband to hear his name mentioned, was careful always to 
keep .quiet on the subject. 

So the days, passed away, and Robert flourished exceed- 
ingly. He took the chair at important gatherings of com- 
mercial men; his advice was sought where questions of finance 
were in dispute; he became director of many important com- 
panies; he even feasted with the Lprd Mayor of London, and 
drank expensive wines at dinner. Indeed, it was quite as- 
tonishing to see with what rapidity this quiet schoolmaster 
developed into a commercial magnate. 

Nor did he lose any opportunity of keeping up the excite- 
ment with which he commenced his London life. As a mat- 
ter of fact, excitement was as (he breath of heaven to him. 
He could not live without it. When he had some big specu- 
lation on foot, it kept his hands and his brain busy, and 
left no time for useless repining. He was here, there and 
everywhere; in the city early in the morning, and there late 
at night. He hated Sundays, for the simple reason that he 
could not go into the city on that day, and, as a consequence, 
his mind was thrown back upon itself, and he was compelled 
to think and brood. 


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It is true that, in the main, conscience slept; but now and 
then it awoke, and lifted up its voice. Occasionally, in the 
middle of the night, he would wake with a start, having 
dreamed that his baseness had been discovered, and that the 
minions of the law were on his track. Now and then he 
would start, fancying that he heard the voice of Harry call- 
ing to him out of the silence, and asking him to make repa- 
ration for the wrong that he had done. But on the whole, 
he was troubled very little by memories of the past, or by 
anticipations of the future. 

Under the influence of a bottle of wine, he grew confi- 
dent and philosophic. He looked off upon the crowd of poor 
struggling fools who tried to make a living by honest meth- 
ods, with more of contempt in his heart than pity. He re- 
membered the time when he was troubled with ethical scru- 
ples, and when he gave ear to moral laws and old wives’ 
fables. How far away that time seemed to him now. 
Though little more than a year had passed since he came 
to London, it seemed a dozen years at the very least. His 
schoolmastering days seemed little more than a memory. He 
had done so much, speculated so largely, taken so many risks, 
been at the flotation of so many companies, that it scarcely 
seemed possible that so much could be crowded into one 
short year. 

And during all this time of feverish activity, he had never 
allowed moral scruples to stand in his. way. He had never 
hesitated to give a bribe or take one; to tell a lie or a hun- 
dred lies, and with what result? Everything that he had 
put his hand to had prospered. Every company he had pro- 
moted had gone with a rush, and the more rotten it was 
the more readily the British public had been to bite at it. 

When his brain was a little excited with wine, he smiled 
superciliously at questions of morality and integrity. He 
had tried both honesty and dishonesty, and he knew which 
paid the best. As a matter of fact, he would have been in 
poverty still, had he stuck to the antiquated notions that 
were still prated about in church. Men learned all that was 
worth learning by experience, and his experience had taught 
that moral scruples were a snare and a fraud. 

His house in Stroud Green soon became too small for 
him. The furniture he had brought from Graystone offended 


’the way of the WORLD. lit 

his eyes. Also it reminded him now and then of the past. 
Everything was reminiscent of a less prosperous day, and 
of a much too obtrusive past. 

So a larger house was taken at Hampstead, with, stables 
attached, and several acres of ground surrounding it. 

Madge cried when she saw the old furniture sent away 
to a sale room, to be disposed of to the highest bidder; it 
seemed almost sacrilege. Soon there w'ould be nothing left to 
connect her with the dear old days, which, in spite of straits 
and poverty, were, as far as she was concerned, infinitely 
happier than the present. 

As time went on, she seemed to have less and less in 
common with the other members of the family. Mrs. Mor- 
ton did her best, in her feeble way, to keep pace with her 
circumstances, and outwardly made a show of enjoying the 
change; but it was all a show, and a very vain one. The 
big house at Hampstead overawed her; she never felt at 
home in it. She hated to have 'servants waiting at the 
table. Their presence sent little chills down her back, while 
the big, sleek coachman was a positive terror to her. She 
always wanted to say Sir to him, and to bring herself to call 
him James was the greatest struggle of her life. 

Dora grew into a. fashionable young lady with wonderful 
ease and rapidity. Everything was delightful to her; the 
fine house, the fine company, the hig city people who occas- 
ionally came to dinner, the servants to wait upon them, the 
drives into Bond Street and Eegent Street in their own car- 
iage, the afternoon calls on fashionable people. It seemed 
almost like a page out of a story book, and she was half 
afraid, sometimes, that it was too good to last. 

Bob had been sent to school in "Winchester, and knew 
little of what w~as going on at home. That, however, did 
not trouble him. So long as he had plenty to eat and a rea- 
sonable time to play, he was supremely happy. 

Madge was, perhaps, the least satisfied of all. Hot that 
she did not love large rooms and pretty things, and the 
manifold comforts that money could buy. It was not that. 
It was something behind it all, which she could not shape 
into words, a vague, undefined fear that things were not as 
they should be. She could not quite free herself from the 
feeling that they were living on a volcano, that at any mo- 


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ment might overwhelm them. She could never understand 
her father’s sudden rise in the commercial and social world, 
nor why it should be synchronous with the misfortune that 
had overwhelmed Harry. That there was some mystery be- 
hind, she felt confident; but what it was, she dared not even 
guess. 

If she had faced the question fairly, she would have told 
herself that she had more faith in Harry than in her own 
father. But it was something she had not the courage to 
do; yet she knew instinctively that her father was deteriorat- 
ing. He was an altogether different man* from what he was 
when they lived in Graystone. Then, at any rate, he did not 
openly sneer at religious things, and treat moral truths as 
though they were old wives’ fables. 

Dora could not understand why Madge did not grow 
enthusiastic over their change of circumstances, and told 
her so. Madge smiled sadly, and was silent. She could 
not tell Dora of the fears that haunted her, nor discuss with 
her the change that had come over their father. Dora was 
a gay little butterfly, who looked merely at the surface of 
things, and troubled herself neither about the past nor the 
future. 

“I do believe, Madge, you would be content to live in 
that little box at Graystone again,” Dora said, quite seriously. 

“I should be quite content, Dora. As a matter of fact, 
I was happier then than I have ever been since.” 

“Oh, what nonsense! We never had a penny to bless 
ourselves with there, and were always maneuvering to make 
both ends meet.” 

“I know that, Dora; but we were, on the whole, very 
happy, nevertheless. We had plenty to do, which was a good 
thing in itself, and then, Harry was always like sunshine 
in the house.” 

“Ah, poor old Harry!” and Dora brushed away a willful 
tear, for she was quick to sorrow, and quick to forget. “How 
foolish he was; but I am glad he was not our own brother” 

“I am not,” Madge said, after a pause, and a look of pain 
stole into her eyes. She was not so emotional as her sis- 
ter; but she felt much more deeply. 

“Do you know, Madge, the old life is getting to be more 
like a dream to me.” 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


119 


“And to me it is getting more and more real. This life 
we are living now does not seem to be right at all.” 

“Oh Madge! how can you say so? Think of the drives 
and calls and dinners, and, Oh! everything, in fact.”, 

“It may please you, Dora; but to me it is terribly empty. 
Fd rather be giving music lessons to the farmers’ daughters 
in Graystone and Minver.” 

“And working doyleys for the bazaar at the Independent 
- Chapel?” 

“Madge blushed. “Yes,” she said; “Fd rather be doing 
that, for I was at least doing some little good.” 

“You pleased the young minister, at any rate,” Dora said, 
flippantly. “Do you know, Madge, I was afraid, at one time, 
I should be having him for my brother-in-law.” 

“What nonsense, Dora,” Madge said, coloring yet more 
deeply. 

“Well, yes, it would be nonsense, dreadful nonsense no 
doubt; but, all the same, I used to feel sorry for him. The 
way those big, longing eyes of his used to follow you about, 
was a sight to see.” 

“Don’t be silly, Dora,” Madge said sharply. “You know 
very well that I scarcely ever went to his chapel, and never, 
unless Harry was with me.” 

“Well that was not his fault,” Dora said, with a laugh. 
“You know he once asked you to join his choir.” 

“And I would have done so,” said Madge quickly, “but for 
giving offence to the Vicar.” 

Dora laughed again, in her light-hearted way. “It would 
have given him an opportunity, if you had,” she said. “But 
what would have been the use? A man with eighty pounds 
a year would never have the courage to propose to anybody.” 

“It seems to me, Dora, that you think that money is every- 
thing,” Madge replied, seriously. 

“Well, I do think it is the main thing,” was the answer. 
“What is anybody to do without money in London? See 
what money has done for us.” 

“That is. what I- can’t see yet,” Madge answered; “but I am 
more than a little afraid that it will prove a greater curse than 
blessing.” 

“Oh, get away with you, Madge! You are enough to give 
me a fit of the blues. 


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“I really cannot understand wliy you talk in that unrea- 
sonable way,” Madge said, coloring again. 

“Nay, it is you who are unreasonable,” Dora answered. “I 
am thankful for fortune's smiles, and happy in my new sur- 
roundings, while you ar£ ever sighing for the land of Egypt 
out of which we came.” 

' Madge was silent again. She felt that there was a certain 
amount of truth in Dora's contention, and yet she could not 
enter into explanations. 

Dora rose at length, and went to the door. “Do you 
know,” she said, “it is quite time we began to dress for din- 
ner? Sir George Hardwood is coming again this evening.” 

“So I suppose, I really don't see why father should bring 
him here so often.” 

“Oh! don't you? How blind some people are,” and Dora 
ran laughing along the corridor. 

Madge looked after her for a moment, with a startled look 
in her eyes. “What can the child mean?” she said to herself 
slowly. Then she walked back into the room and dropped 
suddenly into a chair. 

For the first time a suspicion of the truth crossed her 
mind. Sir George Hardwood had been constantly at the 
house of late. He was connected with her father in a num- 
ber of business speculations; was a director of several compan- 
ies, and was reputed to be enormously rich. 

He came to Firdale, she presumed, to talk business with 
her father. That he could have any other object had never 
until now crossed her mind. 

But Dora's laughing words had awakened a suspicion. 
Could it be that her father was plotting to get her married to 
the Baronet? Sir George was stout, and bald, and forty. A 
good-looking man, some people said, and an excellent catch. 
But Madge shrank from the bare idea. 

She remembered how attentive he had always been to her, 
and frequently he had paid her pretty compliments, and she 
had thought nothing because in her eyes he was quite an 
elderly man, and such an idea as matrimony never crossed her 
mind. 

And yet, and yet — 

“Oh, I must be mistaken!” she said, rising to her feet, 
“He is old enough to be my father,” 


CHAPTER XYI. 


A PROPOSAL. 

ADGE had an ideal — most girls have — but he was the 
very opposite of Sir George Hardwood. Madge had 
spent nearly all her life in an atmosphere of books. 
By nature, as well as by training, she inclined to- 
wards an intellectual life. The talk of the city men who 
came to her father’s house scarcely interested her at all. She 
wondered sometimes how her father, who had always been so 
bookish and reflective, could tolerate the incessant jargon of 
the stock exchange. Now and then, it might be interesting 
to hear discussions on bulls and bears, corners and trusts, syn- 
dicates and discounts, and other kindred topics; but when 
suck subjects were the staple of conversation, she was glad 
when dinner was over and she could escape to her own room. 

Sir George Hardwood was like the rest of them. He 
knew horseflesh, and that was the only matter that interested 
him outside of city affairs. He was a practical man. He 
ate and drank of the best. He drove good horses and paid 
his servants good wages, and helped to float companies, which, 
if they did no good to anyone else, were a source of profit to 
him. 

When he first saw Madge Morton he was “knocked all of a 
heap,” as he expressed it. She belonged to an unfamiliar 
type. He had known crowds of women in his day: clever, 
dashing, handsome, quick-witted, rich; women who knew their 
way about, who could ride to the hunt and discuss horseflesh, 
and were abreast of all society ways and manners. 

But Madge was not of these. There was nothing dashing 
about her, but she was sweet and winsome, and quite unspoilt 
by the world, and it was this that captivated Sir George Hard- 
wood’s fancy. 

Robert Morton was quick to see how matters stood, and 
gave him every opportunity of seeing her in her home. Rob- 
ert had become ambitious. Money had brought with it a de- 
sire for social advancement and distinction, He met so many 



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titled people that he sometimes wondered if such honors 
would ever come his way. He was rather afraid that his wife 
would cut but a poor figure as Lady Morton. Nor was he 
absolutely certain of himself, should such honor be thrust 
upon him. Still, he would be quite prepared to run the risk. 
He had already begun to contribute to one of the political 
parties; not because he believed in the principles of the party, 
but because he understood there was a better chance of social 
recognition and distinction in that direction. 

There had been quite a batch of Knights created lately; 
men by no means distinguished in science, or art, or litera- 
ture, or even politics. But they were moneyed men. They 
had made it, and they had contributed handsomely to the war 
chest of the party, and they had been rewarded accordingly. 
It was said that some of them dropped their h’s and were 
sublimely ignorant of grammar, and that their wives had been 
diligent students ever since of a sixpenny edition of the Man- 
ners of High Society. But never mind; they had handles to 
their names. But he recognized, also, that all moneyed men 
do not get knighted. He might be found out; and a little 
shiver ran down his back. If he were found out, it would be 
all up with him. English society will tolerate anything in the 
world in a man, except his being found out. That is the un- 
pardonable sin. Directly a man allows himself to be found 
out, society and even Parliament becomes righteously iudig- 
nant, and prates piously about the cardinal virtues, and the 
necessity of being like Caesar’s wife — above suspicion. 

So Robert Morton shivered occasionally. He might be 
found out, and then his dreams of worldly honor and distinc- 
tion would vanish. But if he could not become a Knight, 
there seemed no reason why he should not become the father- 
in-law of a Baronet, and that would be just as good. To 
speak of his daughter as Lady Hardwood, would be almost 
equal to having his faded, weakly, devoted wife -spoken of as 
Lady Morton. 

Robert saw that the Baronet was greatly taken with 
Madge. He came to Firdale much more frequently than any 
business necessity warranted, and it was very clear that Madge 
was the attraction. Robert did the best he could to foster 
the Baronet’s liking; gave him frequent invitations to dinner, 
and put many opportunities in his way of seeing Madge; she 


A PROPOSAL. 


123 


all the while being quite innocent of the intentions of her 
father. 

But on the evening following her conversation with Dora, 
her eyes were opened. The Baronet paid her most marked 
attention, he followed her to the drawing-room directly after 
dinner, and begged her to play and sing. He paid her deli- 
cate and flattering compliments, and in a dozen little ways 
showed what his object was. 

Madge was greatly distressed. Sir George was her father’s 
guest; she was anxious to treat him with proper deference, 
and yet to give him the least encouragement to make love to 
her, was abhorrent to every instinct of her nature. Sir 
George’s attentions became so pointed, after a while, that in 
order to escape she excused herself on the plea of not feeling 
well, and retired to her bed-room. 

But, escape from a man of Sir George’s temperament was 
not easy. That he would have any difficulty in winning 
Madge, he did not imagine for a moment. He recognized his 
social position, his family name, his v considerable wealth, his 
beautiful house, to say nothing of his personal attractions, 
which, in his own eyes at any rate, were somewhat consider- 
able. He had been so often flattered, that he believed that 
he was a very handsome man; hence that any sensible girl 
should say “No” to his proposal, did not occur to him for a 
moment. 

Madge’s withdrawal from the drawing-room did not dis- 
concert him in the least — it was just one of the little ways of 
women. Possibly she felt embarrassed at the attentions of 
one so much her social superior. Indeed, he flattered himself 
he had made a very good beginning. That Madge had 
blushed and looked uncomfortable, were good signs, in his 
judgment. Her shyness and apparent coldness added greatly 
to her charms. 

He was sick of the bold, clever, designing, up-to-date 
women with whom he came into contact. The sweet uncon- 
sciousness of Madge captivated his fancy completely, and he 
was prepared to dare the anger of all the society dames he was 
acquainted with, and marry sweet Madge Morton forthwith. 

Sir George believed in striking when the iron was hot; so 
on the following afternoon he drove out to Firdale again, re- 
solving he would have another interview with Madge, and 


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bring the question to a direct issue. It was a beautiful day 
in early spring; the air was crisp and warm. The view from 
the Spaniard’s Road, as he drove along, was as tine in its way 
as anything he had ever seen. For once the smoke did not 
totally obscure London, which stretched away as far as eye 
could reach, and formed a picture not without very striking 
points of beauty. Grey and colorless the city might be, a 
wilderness of bricks and mortar, but this afternoon it was 
glorified by a golden haze that lay all over it, hiding all its 
objectionable features, shutting out its squalor, and bringing 
its myriad pinnacles and towers into striking relief. It was 
a picture the like of which is to be seen nowhere else on earth, 
and as Sir George drove along, he could scarcely take his eyes 
from it. 

Northw ard, the picture was of a very different kind. Mile 
after mile of undulating country, clad in richest green, rolled 
away before him. In the dim distance was the town of St. 
Albans, and farther to the west were the wooded heights of 
Harrow, and dimly visible were numberless towns and villages 
hidden away among the trees. 

The Baronet was not exactly artistic in his tastes; he was 
distinctly commercial; nevertheless the lovely landscape 
stretching away by his side touched his imagination, and 
coupled with the thought of Madge’s fair face, which he 
hoped to see this afternoon, raised him to a higher plane of 
feeling and emotion than was common to him. 

Mrs. Morton and Dora might have known that the Baro- 
net intended to call with the special object of seeing Madge, 
for they very conveniently kept out of the way. As a matter 
of fact, they had driven into the city to do some shopping,, 
consequently when Sir George was announced, Madge was sit- 
ting in the drawing-room alone. She looked up with a glance, 
of surprise and pain when the Baronet was announced. He 
was the last individual in the world she expected to see on a 
bright sunshiny afternoon. Yet directly his name was men- 
tioned, she had an instinctive feeling of the reason why he 
had called. 

Sir George came into her presence bowing and smiling, 
and evidently on the best of terms with himself. He was 
dressed in perfect taste. His well-fitting frock coat was but- 
toned closely round his ample figure; a beautiful orchid 


A PROPOSAL. 


125 


adorned his buttonhole; his feet were incased in well-fitting 
patent-leather boots; his bald head shone like polished ivory. 

Madge advanced timidly to meet him, hardly knowing 
.what to do or say. 

“I hope I see you well this afternoon, Miss Morton,” he 
said, bowing urbanely. 

“Yes, thank you, I am very well,” Madge answered slowly. 

“And your mother and Miss Dora are well also, I hope?” 
he questioned. 

“Yes, they are quite well, thank you. They have gone 
into the city this afternoon.” 

“Indeed!” and Sir George raised his eyebrows. “Then 
you are alone this afternoon?” 

“Mother did not know you would be calling, or I am sure 
she would not have gone out this afternoon,” Madge replied. 

“She would not of course expect me to call again so soon,” 
he answered, “but you were not well last evening, and so I 
thought I would drive ’round and inquire after your health.” 

“Oh, it was nothing!” Madge answered quickly. “The 
rooms were rather warm last night, but I recovered directly.” 

For a moment, an awkward silence fell between them, 
and they stood looking at each other with an embarrassed ex- 
pression in their eyes. Sir George, however, was not easily 
disconcerted. * 

“Will you not ask me to sit down?” he said with a smile. 

“I beg your pardon,” she answered quickly. “Please ex- 
cuse my want of thought,” and she motioned him to a seat. 

“I have come specially to see you this afternoon,” he said, 
“and so am not at all disappointed at finding you alone. As 
a matter of fact, I am very much pleased as it gives me an op- 
portunity of saying what I have been anxious to say for many 
weeks past.” 

Madge blushed, and fidgeted uneasily in her chair. She 
felt that she was in for a bad quarter of an hour, and there 
appeared to be no way out. With a woman’s keen intuition, 
she knew well enough for what purpose the Baronet had 
called, and she looked in vain for any way of escape. 

Sir George was by no means shy, nor did he lack the 
power of utterance; but to sit there in the afternoon sunshine 
and make love deliberately to one who had, up to the present, 
given him little or no encouragement, was a task of greater 


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difficulty than he had imagined. Before he left home, he had 
decided exactly what he would say. He had composed a little 
speech just as he was in the habit of doing when taking the 
chair at a directors’ meeting. He intended bringing out the< 
strong points in his favor. He would, of course, flatter 
Madge’s vanity; he would point out the advantages of such an 
alliance, and, generally speaking, he believed that he would 
make so excellent an impression, that she would fall in with 
his suggestions with very little delay. Yet, somehow, this 
afternoon, as he sat looking at her sweet, demure face, the 
speech that he had prepared seemed somewhat incongruous. - 

Sir George was not lacking in resource, and so after a 
moment’s silence he said: ' 

“I wonder, Miss Morton, if you can guess why I have 
called this afternoon.” 

“Why, you have told me that already,” she said. “You 
came to inquire after my health.” 

“Yes, that is one reason for my calling,” he answered; 
“but not the only reason, and indeed not the chief reason.” 

“Indeed?” she questioned, without raising her eyes. 

“Yes, I had a very special object in calling this afternoon. 

I think you will have noticed. Miss Morton, that I have paid 
you considerable attention lately.” 

“You have come here as my father’s guest, I understand,” 
said she somewhat coldly. 

“But as the guest of your father, I have fallen in love with 
his daughter,” he said deliberately, and he drew his chair 
nearer to hers and tried to take her hand; but she drew it 
away instantly and pushed her chair a little further back. 

“Please hear me out. Miss Madge,” he said, with a shade of 
disappointment in his tone. “Be assured it is no boyish pas- 
sion that I feel for you; it is a man’s love that I offer; it is a 
man’s heart that you have conquered. I know I am much 
older than you; but -not so much older, I hope, as to form any 
serious obstacle. I have gone through life until now, heart 
whole, and fancy free, as they say; but directly I saw your 
face I knew that my fate was sealed. Believe me, Madge — 
please allow me to call you Madge — you have won my heart 
completely, and I shall never be happy .again until you smile 
upon my suit.” Then he waited a moment, to see what im- 
pression his words were making. Madge, with burning cheeks 


A PROPOSAL. 


127 


and eyes bent npon the floor, seemed quite unable to speak. 
She was struggling with herself, and trying to gain the mas- 
tery. She did not want to be rude to the Baronet, and yet 
she wanted- to say to him in a way that he could not fail to 
understand, that his quest was thoroughly hopeless. 

“May I take your silence as giving consent?” he went on. 
“I know my proposal will seem sudden to you; but my love is 
so great that I could not keep silence any longer.” 

“Oh, please, Sir George, don’t say another word!” she 
struggled at length to say. “"I have done wrong, perhaps, in 
letting you say so much; but, believe me, I can never say ‘Yes’ 
to your proposal.” 

“Oh, surely you do not mean that!” he said, coloring to 
the extremity of his bald head. 

“Indeed I do. Sir George,” she said. “It would be wrong 
of me to encourage you to think that I could ever love you; 
I am sure I never can. You are very kind, and you do me 
great honor; but please let the matter drop now, and never let 
it be alluded to again.” 

“No, no, you surely cannot mean that,” he protested. 
“Think of all that I can offer you, wealth, position, name, 
everything in fact that the heart of woman can desire.” 

She smiled at him pathetically. 

“Not everything. Sir George,” she said. 

“What else could any man offer you?” he questioned. 

“I do not know that any man could offer me more,” she 
said; “but wealth and name and position are nothing in them- 
selves, if love be lacking.” 

“But love will come,” he said desperately. “It is a plant 
that grows and thrives.” 

“It cannot grow if there is no seed for it to spring from,” 
she answered. “Please let us drop the matter, Sir 
George.” 

“I cannot. Miss Madge,” he said, “really I cannot. I have 
made up my mind to win you. You are the only woman I 
have ever seen that I have cared two straws for. Do not im- 
agine that I have remained all these years without marrying, 
because no one would have me. I can assure you Miss 
Madge — ■” 

“I do not doubt,” she said interrupting, “that you might 
easily find a wife, and, what is more, you might easily find a 


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wife fitted for your station. I am not at all fitted, Sir George. 
I am only a simple country maiden, and have grown up in 
simple, homely ways. I should be Jiappier, infinitely, in a 
little house than in a big one. No, no, it cannot be. I do 
not wish to grieve you; but be assured that my words are pre- 
cisely what I mean/’ 

“No, do not say that,” he protested. “I will give you 
time to think it over. Perhaps I have been precipitate; I own 
I have been; my apology must be the greatness of my love. 
Don’t shut down the question now, let it stand open, Miss 
Madge.” 

“It is better for us both that I should not,” she answered. 
“I know I shall never change. I have no love to give.” 

“Then there is some other man in the way,” he said angri- 
ly- 

“No, there is not,” she answered; “it isn’t that at all. No 
other man ever spoke a word of love to me before; but all the 
same I know my heart, and really this must be my final word.” 

“But it must not be your final word,” he said. “I will 
come and see you again in a week, in a fortnight, in a month, 
any time you may name; but I cannot and will not accept 
your word this afternoon as final,” and, rising quickly, he 
bade her good afternoon. 

That night Madge lay awake staring into the darkness, and 
thinking of all that the Baronet had said to her, and wonder- 
ing what part she would have to play in the future. Another 
face came up before her, the face of one whom she had not 
seen for a year and a half, of one who had never made 
love to her, of one whom she could scarcely reckon among 
her friends. He was but a mere acquaintance. She 
had met him casually now and then, and once or twice 
they had conversed about books and art and music, and that 
was all. And yet, though he was only an acquaintance, and- 
she did not know that she would ever see him again, his face! 
often came up before her. He had captivated her fancy more 
than any other man on earth had done. He was poor, and 
likely to Temain poor to the end of his days. He was un- 
known in the great worlds of Art, and Literature, and Law, 
and Commerce. He was but a. village pastor, a young man 
preaching in a small chapel for the barest pittance; a young 
man who loved books, who lived in a region of lofty thought 


A PROPOSAL. 


129 


— an ideal world of his own in some respects — who saw visions 
and dreamed dreams that were not given to every man. 

And then, by the side of his pale, thoughtful face, with its 
delicate nostrils and large, expressive eyes, there came up the 
ruddy, rubicund face of Sir George Hardwood, with his thick, 
fleshy lips, his full, animal eyes, his bald head and double 
chin, and she knew that if she ever gave her heart to anyone 
it would not be to a man of the type of the Baronet. He 
might have riches, and social position, and an ancient name; 
but they were nothing in her eyes. To mate with a man 
whose thoughts were sordid, and who lived for gain and pleas- 
ure, who could talk about nothing but stocks, and shares, and 
horseflesh, who had not a soul above that which is of the 
earth, earthy, would be worse than death to her. If she ever 
loved, the man would have to be of the other type. He might 
he poor and neglected; he might have to live in obscurity all 
the days of his life; but that would he compensated for by the 
joys of companionship, by the bliss of a true kinship. 

She might never see Ernest Everett again, and even if she 
did, it might make no difference. Their positions were great- 
ly changed since they used to meet occasionally in the quiet 
little village of Graystone. Her father had grown rich in the 
meanwhile, and they occupied a big house and lived in con- 
siderable style. Nevertheless, the young Independent 
preacher remained in her imagination, an ideal to which the 
man whom she could love would have to approximate to a 
greater or less degree, 


Chapter xyii. 


THE PRICE OF SIN; 

WO days later, her father called her into his room. 
‘‘Sir George Hardwood tells me/’ he said ab- 
ruptly, “that he has asked you to be his wife, and 
that you have refused. Is that so?” 

“it is so,” she answered. 

“And why did you refuse him?” he asked, almost angrily. 

“Because I do not love him,” she said, “and I am quite 
Sure I never shall.” 

“Oh, that is all nonsense !” he replied, testily. “He is one 
of the best catches in the country. He has been a great 
friend to me, and a great help, too. I am very much disap- 
pointed with you, and I hope you will reconsider your de- 
cision.” 

“No, father, I shall never reconsider it,” she answered. 

“Don’t be so emphatic,” he said. “You are not the only 
person to be considered in this matter. Remember that I 
have a voice, and that I have authority, also, and I expect 
when Sir George asks you again, that you will give him a 
very different answer.” 

“I shall never give him any different answer,” she said, de- 
fiantly. 

“Then you will have me to reckon with,” he said, “and 
when I say a thing, I mean it, and if you attempt to defy me, 
it will be the worse for you,” and taking his hat, he marched 
out of the room. Madge stared after him, for a few seconds, 
in astonishment, then returned to her chair and sat down. 
The trail of the golden serpent seemed to be over everything. 
Her father’s so-called good-fortune had been his curse, and 
was likely to become a greater bane still. Outwardly they 
were prosperous; but inwardly she felt they were growing 
poorer and poorer every day. She saw her father slowly 
•changing before her eyes. There was a time when she ad- 
mired him; when his thoughtful face was as a beautiful pic- 
ture to her. Now her reverence was a steadily diminishing 





THE PRICE OF SIN. 


131 


quantity. He was becoming hard, and cruel, and selfish, and 
cynical. While he grew rich in money, he grew daily poorer 
in all that made life beautiful and worthy, and now, to 
crown all, he was ready to sacrfice her; to offer her up on 
the altar of worldly position. It was hateful and despicable, 
and tears of anger and of regret welled up in her eyes. 

Later in the day, she went out for a walk alone. The 
weather was beautiful, the roads a treat. In the distance, 
coming down the hill, was a bicyclist, the only one, strangely 
enough, in all the long stretch of road. She raised her eyes 
once or twice, as he came nearer and nearer, but she felt no 
interest in anything at the moment. Her heart was too sore, 
her spirits too depressed. 

Suddenly the bicyclist slowed up, just opposite her, and 
dismounted. She raised her eyes, and the blood rushed in a 
torrent to her neck and face. 

It was Ernest Everett, the pastor of Bethel Chapel, Gray- 
stone. Many people know what a pleasure it is to see a familiar 
face in a strange land, and London was still a strange land to 
Madge. She had not got used to it yet; she sometimes thought 
she never would. Graystone was still home to her, and often 
in her imagination she pictured its row of quaint cottages, its 
quiet lanes, its long stretches of undulating pasture land, its 
simple, slow-moving life, and again and again she found her- 
self pining for the days that would never return. 

Hence the sight of Ernest Everett’s . face was like a 
draught of water to a thirsty traveler. She had seen no one 
from Graystone for a year and a half, and she was eager for 
news of all the people she knew. People who are only re- 
motely acquainted become quite friendly when they meet in a 
strange city, and Ernest Everett seemed to her like a very old 
friend indeed. 

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said, holding his bi- 
cycle with his left hand and reaching out to her his right. “I 
did not know you lived in this part of London.” 

“0 ! h, yes, we have been living here for some time,” she 
answered. 

“And do you like it?” he questioned. 

“Yes, for London I think it is very beautiful,” she am 
swered. “Of course I have not got quite used to it yet. It 
isn’t like Graystone, for instance,” 


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“I should think not, indeed/’ he said. “Graystone must 
seem tame after London.” 

“I don’t know/’ she answered; “one can be as quiet here 
in the suburbs as fifty miles away in the country.” 

“Yes, but you are near the city,” he answered. “Its roar 
is almost in your ears; you can feel the beat of its mighty 
heart.” 

“I don’t know that I want to feel the beat of its mighty 
heart,” she said, with a smile. “I think I like the quiet of the 
country best.” 

“And your father; has he a school in this neighborhood?” 
he asked. 

She blushed, and raised her eyes to his. 

“Oh, no, father has never kept school since he left Gray- 
stone. Did you not know?” 

“No,” he answered slowly. “You seem to have quite 
passed out of sight. No one in Graystone appears to know 
what has become of you. I have often wondered where you 
were living.” 

“We have kept up no correspondence with anyone,” she 
said. “After the trouble that befell us, it . was father’s wish 
that we should break with the old life entirely.” 

“Do you think that was wise?” he answered. “None of 
you could help what was done by another.” 

“That is true; but we felt it all the same.” 

“No doubt, no doubt; we all felt, sorry, and more than 
sorry, we were perplexed and bewildered, and even yet people 
in Graystone feel as though there had been a mistake, a mis- 
carriage of justice.” 

“I am glad to hear you say that,” she replied: “for we have 
learned since that Harry is not our brother, though he will al- 
ways be a brother to me.” 

“He was a splendid fellow.” Ernest said with a far-away 
look in his eyes, “and his strange fall, if fall it was, will al- 
ways be a puzzle to me.” 

For awhile, silence fell between them. Then Madge said, 

“And how are all the people at Graystone?” 

“I think they are about as usual,” he answered. “There 
have been very few changes since you left. Of course you 
have heard of the engagement between Miss Monica Stuart 
and Mr. Rupert Grant?” 


THE PRICE OF SIN. 


133 


“No I have not heard/’ she said. 

“They are to he married when she is twenty-one, I under- 
stand.” 

“And is the Earl quite well?” 

“Yes, he seems as well as ever.” 

“And you still continue to minister at Bethel?” she ques- 
tioned, smiling. 

“Oh, yes, that seems the only place for me at the present 
time, and I don’t think I want to change. Do you know that 
my people have purchased your old house as a Manse?” 

“No, I did not know,” she said, with a sudden accession 
of color to her cheek. 

“It came into the market soon after you left, he said, “and 
my deacons bought it and have furnished it for me. I told 
them it was something of a white elephant, as I had no wife, 
and no prospect of getting one.” 

“But you have a sister, perhaps,” Madge questioned, with 
a smile, “who will be glad to come and keep house for you?” 

“Unfortunately I have not,” he said. “I have two sisters, 
it is true, but they have houses of their own to look after, and 
so I am driven to find a housekeeper somewhere. I am 
anxious to get hold of some elderly party who will play the 
mother to me.” 

“But it will be far nicer than living in the village,” she 
said. “Have you taken up your residence there yet?” 

“No, not yet; it has only just been completed. I have 
come up to town now for the purpose of getting a few things 
that I shall need in my new capacity as house-holder.” 

“I only hope that you will be as happy there as we were,” 
she answered slowly, with a touch of regret in her tone. “Do 
you know, I .look back upon Graystone with infinite pleasure 
sometimes.” 

“But I fancy you would soon tire of it, if you had to live 
there again,” he answered. 

“Perhaps I should,” she answered slowly. “It is natural 
to glorify the scenes of one’s early life.” 

They came at length to the parting of the ways. One 
road led up to the rim of the Heath, the other to the city. 

“Do we part here?” he said, seeing her pause. 

“I presume so,” she answered. “Tins is the nearest way 
for me,” 


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“I hope I am not intruding/ 7 he said a little shyly; “but I 
should like to go with you to the Spaniard's Road. I have 
not been there for years." 

“It will be out of your way considerably, will it not?" she 
questioned. 

“It may be a little: but I do not mind. I shall do nothing 
to-day, and I shall not return to Graystone till to-morrow, or 
the day following." 

So, without any more words, they began to climb the hill. 
For awhile neither of them spoke. The road had been newly 
laid in places, and he had to pick a path for his machine. 

At length a chair in the full eye of the spring sunshine 
tempted them to turn aside and rest. It was his proposal, 
and Madge did not raise the slightest objection. 

“I suppose you still keep up your music?" he questioned, 
after a few moments of very delightful silence. 

“I am afraid I don't," she said with a smile. “You see I 
don't give lessons now." 

“Indeed!" he said slowly, and he raised his eyes and looked 
at her questioningly. 

She volunteered no further explanation, however. She 
was not in the mood to talk about herself. 

“And do you live near here ?" 

“Yes, our house is not a great distance away. We lived 
first at Stroud Green. Do you know Stroud Green?" 

“Yo, I can't say that I do. You see I never lived in Lon- 
don." 

“I don't think you would like it. It is a terribly lonely 
place." 

“I fancy I should disagree with you in that," he said with 
a smile. 

“I suppose some people like it," she answered, after a 
pause. “Men who go into the city every day and mix in its 
crowds, and take part in its ceaseless struggle, feel it may be 
more or less exhilarating; but for the women who stay at 
home and practically do nothing but make calls, it is anything 
but inspiring." 

“I think life is humdrum for most people," he answered, 
“whether in the city or in the country. The main thing is 
to have a definite end in view, and get recreation in striving 

for it." 


THE PRICE OF £ lilt. 


185 


“I airi afraid that is where I suffer lack,” she answered, 
with a wistful look in her eyes. “I fear'sometimes I am grow- 
ing very lazy and terribly selfish.” 

He glanced at her and wondered. She was well, even 
expensively dressed. She did nothing and her father no 
longer kept a school. Had he come into a fortune he won- 
dered, or had he found in this great city a more lucrative 
situation? He was strongly tempted to ask her a point-blank 
question, but refrained. If Madge wanted him to know, she 
would tell him. 

He was sure he could love Madge Morton if he allowed 
his heart way in any degree. He was not sure that he did 
not love her as it was. One thing he was quite certain of 
that there was not another maiden in the world that he cared 
for a hundredth part as much. 

Madge rose at length, and with a little sigh, he followed 
her on to the Spaniard’s Road. 

“They will think I am lost at home,” she said with a 
winsome smile. “I really must he going now; hut I cannot 
tell you what a pleasure it has been to see someone from 
Graystone.” 

“And shall I lose sight of you again for another eighteen 
months?” he asked regretfully. 

“Ah, that is more than anyone can tell. People meet 
in London in such accidental ways.” 

“In the City. But I think you said you did not often go 
into the City.” 

“Ho, I don’t go often. Mother and Dora go much more 
frequently.” 

“And you take your recreation in this neighborhood?” 

“Sometimes, hut only when the weather is fine.” 

“I usually come up about once a month,” he said, after 
a pause. 

“Indeed?” 

“I am on a committee that meets on the second Wednes- 
day in each month, and I like to attend if it is at all possible.” 

“And do you always come on your bicycle?” 

“Oh, no! Only during the summermonths when the weath- 
er is fine. It is a good four hours’ run from Graystone 
here.” 

“So you start about one o'clock?” 


136 


TO PAY THE PRICE. 


“Yes, generally. Our committee meets at seven in the 
evening” 

"It is possible we may meet ag;ain, sometime,” she an- 
swered, and held out her hand to him. 

He grasped it quickly, and held it for a moment. “I shall 
always look out for you when 1 come this way,” he said. 

And for answer she gave him a smile, and waited till he 
mounted his machine and rode away. 

As she walked up the drive to the house, she saw her 
father and Sir George Hardwood walking up and down in 
very earnest conversation. 

In a moment all f the blood left her cheeks. She felt 
instinctively that there was trouble brewing for her. Never- 
theless, she was resolved that nothing should coerce her into 
marrying the Baronet. She hated the sight of him, and all 
the more so since seeing Ernest Everett. But she little 
guessed how powerful the forces were that were working 
against her. 

Since he had been in London Robert Morton had learned 
many things. Among the rest, he had learned that there 
were rogues in the metropolis quite as clever as himself, and, 
on the whole, rather more so. To play with edged tools 
requires great skill and agility, and, after all, Robert Mor- 
ton was only a novice at the business. His success had 
blinded his eyes to many of the perils that lurked in his path, 
and the rapidity of his social advancement had made him 
reckless. So far, he prided himself that he had not made 
a miss. His most daring and reckless speculations had 
proved the most successful. With the general public "Mor- 
ton and Fletcher” were names to conjure with. But there 
were a few people in what was termed "the know.” How 
they got into "the know” would take too long to tell. 

Sir George Hardwood was one of these. Robert Morton 
had used him as his tool. Sir George had appeared quite 
content to be a tool. It was a pretty game of wits, and 
Robert lost. 

The Baronet, however, was generous and more than gen- 
erous. He did not ask for gold or scrip. 

Madge was the price of secrecy and safety, and Robert 
gave his word that the price should be paid,' and felt im- 
mensely proud of the transaction. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


LIBERTY AND BONDAGE. 

ONICA never fully realised what she had done un- 
til she saw the announcement of her engagement 
in the “County Times;” then the full significance 
of her act almost overwhelmed her. Smarting un- 
der a sense of wrong and loss; angry, reckless, and almost 
despairing, she had completely lost her sense of proportion 
and perspective, and for awhile did not care what happened 
to her, and was utterly indifferent as to whether she lived 
or died. 

It was in that mood that she had listened to Rupert 
Grant’s proposal, and had promised to he his wife. The an- 
nouncement of the engagement did not appear in the paper 
until two or three weeks after, by which time she had be- 
gun to recover something of her normal tone, and when 
she saw her name in black and white standing out from the 
printed page, and coupled with that of Rupert Grant, a 
hot wave of shame and consternation swept over her. 

“Oh, what have I done?” she wailed, wringing her hands 
and staring hard at the paper. 

Monica, after she read the announcement, shut herself 
in her room, and remained there most of the day. For the 
first time, she faced the situation calmly and dispassionately. 
But the cold light of reason brought very little comfort to 
her heart, or illumination to her path. 

She hated herself for giving the promise; She hated 
Rupert for binding her to it under such conditions, and yet, 
even now,, she was in no mood to unsay what she had said. 
If she were to do so, what would happen? She would be 
accused of all sorts of mean things. She would make her 
guardian terribly angry, for he had evidently set his heart 
upon the alliance. She would place herself in an exceed- 
ingly false position, and make her life at Graystone a most 
unhappy one. 

“I don’t suppose I can mend it,” she said to herself, 




138 TO PAY THE PRICE. 

with a mixture of despair and defiance in her tone. “I sup- 
pose I must marry somebody, and Rupert is less objection- 
able than most men. He cares nothing for me, and I care 
nothing for him, and, as we quite understand each other, 
we ought to get on very well.” 

When Rupert called next day, she received him quite 
pleasantly, and even consented to go for a drive with him, 
on condition that she handled the reins and whip. 

"It would look better if I drove,” Rupert demurred. 

"I am afraid I don’t care anything about looks,” she an- 
swered. "I’m not going to trust my life in your hands — 
at least, not yet. You know nothing about horses, and Prince 
particularly needs humoring.” 

Rupert concurred, and looked annoyed. It was the truth 
that stung him. But his ignorance of horses was his mis- 
fortune rather than his fault. 

"As you will, Monica,” he said at length, and walked to 
the window to hide his annoyance.” 

"Guardy ought to have given you some driving lessons,” 
she went on; "but I suppose he would not think about it. He 
is so fond of handling the ribbons himself.” 

"And my father is too poor to keep horses,” he answered, 
sullenly, without turning his head. 

"Never mind, I’ll give you a few lessons myself,” she 
said, a little bit maliciously. "Now that we are engaged, 
I shall have a perfect right to do so, shan’t I?” 

He colored again, and then his face brightened. Her 
admission of the engagement took quite a load off his mind. 
He had been on the fidget all the time lest she should <c back 
out,” as he expressed it. But this sudden and candid recog- 
nition of the fact quite reassured him. 

"You will have a perfect right to do lots of things now,” 
he answered brightly, "and I assure you I shall prove an apt 
pupil.” 

"Oh, don’t boast, Rupert for, really, in some things you 
are awfully dull — you’ll excuse me for saying so, won’t you?” 

"Yes, I’ll excuse you, Monica, but you need not repeat 
it. A man may call himself a fool, but — but — •” 

"He doesn’t like other folks to call him one, eh?” 

"Well, if a man called me dull, the chances are he would 
feel dull himself before he had time to count ten.” 


LIBERTY and bondage. 


139 


“Unless he were bigger than you, Rupert.” 

“No, I should not stop to consider that question.” 

Monica gave a little laugh. Then her face suddenly grew 
grave. Her thoughts went back instinctively to that encoun- 
ter she witnessed between Rupert and Harry. 

Poor Harry, he was never absent from her thoughts for 
very long together, and she constantly pictured him “doing” 
his weary two years in some horrible prison. In which of the 
prisons he was pining, she did not know. No one had told 
her, and she never had the heart to ask. It did not matter. 
She had seen her last of him. 

She wished he had died instead; then she could think of 
him as being at rest, and free from the worry and pain of 
life. It was the fact that he was alive and suffering, that 
kept his memory so green, and would not allow her to forget 
him. 

Rupert cut short her reflections. “Here comes Sam with 
the dog-cart,” he said. 

“Oh, wait a moment, while I get my gloves!” and she ran 
quickly out of the room, and up the broad stairs. 

“Just like a woman,” he grunted to himself, as he looked 
after her. “There’s always something wanted at the last 
moment. I wonder if a woman was ever in time for anything 
yet, but, by Jove, Monica will take a lot of managing.” 

He discovered, much to his chagrin as the months rolled 
by, that she refused to be managed. In spite of anything 
he might say or suggest, she persisted in going her own way. 

When six months had gone by, he suggested to Monica 
that they should get married without further delay. “It 
seemed stupid,” he said, “to waste the best portion of their 
lives in such a dull, stupid place as Graystone.” 

She raised her eyebrows at him, inquiringly. 

“My idea is not to settle anywhere for awhile,” he went 
on. “Why not spend a year or two in travel? Think what 
a splendid time we might have in visiting the capitals of 
Europe.” 

“Do you think you would like it?” 

“Like it? I tell you it would be just lovely. We are 
simply stagnating here. Besides, people never enjoy travel 
so much as when they are young, and we shall never be 
younger. Monica.” 


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“What an original remark.” 

“But you can’t say it isn’t true/’ he said, with a good- 
humored laugh. 

“No, that seems fairly obvious,” she said, demurely. 

“Then why not fall in with my suggestion, and let us 
get married straight away?” 

She looked at him gravely, for a second or two; then her 
face brightened with a smile. 

“I am afraid my reason will not commend itself to you, 
Rupert” she said, “but the truth is, I want to enjoy my free- 
dom as long as I possibly can.” 

“But, surely, you do not call stagnating here enjoyment?” 
he questioned eagerly. 

“It may not seem much to boast of,” she said, slowly; 
“but I fancy a poor freedom is better than a sumptuous 
bondage.” 

“You ought not to speak of the marriage state as bond- 
age,” he said, reproachfully. 

“In our case, I’m afraid it must be,” she answered. “We 
are not pretending to marry each other for love. As I said 
at the first, it is purely a family arrangement, and when 
two people are tied together for life who don’t care much 
more than the proverbial two straws for each other, it is 
bound to be a condition of bondage.” 

“Pardon me, Monica,” he said, humbly; “but you are 
surely assuming a great deal that is not true.” 

“Not true?” she questioned, raising her eyebrows. 

“Yes, Monica. It is not true to say that I don’t care two 
straws for you. I am sorry and pained if after all these 
months you have no love for me. But you ought to know 
that I love you devotedly — passionately.” 

“Oh nonsense, Rupert! I am sure we quite understand 
each other, and no amount of protesting will make any dif- 
ference.” 

“Perhaps you will believe me some day,” he said, in hurt 
tones. “Evidentlv, at present, you do not understand me.” 

“Oh yes, I do!” she said, with a smile. 

“You think so: but your words prove that you don’t,” 
he answered dismally. 

“Oh, very well then! we will not debate the question any 
further.” 


LIBERTY AND BONDAGE. 


141 


“And won’t you let the marriage take place soon, 
Monica?'’ 

“'No, Rupert. I'll be free till I’m twenty-one at any rate, 
— that’s final.” 

“No, don’t say it’s final,” he pleaded; “think again. As 
my wife, you will be as free as you are now, and, as a matter 
of fact, a good deal freer. We shall be able to travel abroad, 
and enjoy ourselves, and when we are tired of that, we can 
take a house in Kensington or Bayswater, and get into the 
swim of London society, and then be as happy as it’s possible 
for two mortals to be.” 

She smiled at him, wistfully, and shook her head, and 
then the matter dropped for the time; but Rupert was tena- 
cious, and returned to the subject again and again. 

“She will yield to my wishes yet,” he would say to him- 
self, with a smile, “and, by Jove, if I don’t get the wedding 
over during the next year, there’ll be complications.” 

Meanwhile, Harry was wearing his heart out, within four 
stone walls. He tried his best to reconcile himself to his fate, 
and put from him, as far as he could, all memories of the 
past, and all anticipations of the future. But the mind is 
less amenable to coercion than the body. He had consider- 
able strength of will; but memory defied him, and his thought 
refused to be chained. 

Moreover, he was not always certain that he had done 
the right thing. To pay the price of another’s sin, might, 
under certain circumstances, be a very noble and praiseworthy 
act; but whether or no such circumstances obtained in his 
case, he was by no means sure. Robert Morton might be 
encouraged to do yet further wrong, while Madge and Dora 
and Bob, whom he had been most anxious to serve, might 
gain nothing in the end. In fact, they might suffer a greater 
loss. So his mind was in a constant conflict of doubt. 

“If T were only sure that I was doing good by the sac- 
rifice of myself,” he would say to himself, “I think I could 
bear it better, but, heaven knows, I may be doing more harm 
than good.” 

At other times, he would look at the matter in quite a 
different light. 

“I am here,” he would say to himself, “just because I 


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could not help it. There’s nothing vicarious about it. If I 
had told all I knew, I should be no better off. Nobody would 
believe me. It was a case of Hobson’s choice.” 

But the worst of all was, he had lost Monica. There was 
no denying the fact that, notwithstanding all that he had 
said to himself to the contrary, he had cherished the hope 
that some day he would win her for his wife. 

lie knew she liked him; that, in her bright, girlish way, 
she was exceedingly fond of him. He knew, also, that she 
was never influenced by pride of blood or name; that in her 
eyes he was as good as anyone else, and, in addition to that, 
he had his dreams of success. He had pictured himself being 
called to the Bar. He had dreamed of pleading in some great 
case, that should bring his name prominently to the front; 
he had seen himself raised to the rank of Queen’s Coun- 
selor. He had even fancied himself taking his seat in Parlia- 
ment, and then, what would there be to hinder him from 
claiming Monica as his bride?” 

Hence, though he put as brave a face on the situation 
as was possible, he pined and drooped like a forest bird shut 
up in a cage. It was not the prison discipline — though that 
was bad enough, and brutalizing in all conscience — it was 
the sense of loss, the utter darkness and hopelessness of the 
future. Everything that was worth living for had been taken 
from him. He almost dreaded the time to come when he 
should be again free. 

Free! What bitter mockery that word may express. There 
is no more freedom for the man who has once served in one 
of Her Majesty’s jails. The Christian public of England will 
make very sure of that. If he is not so completely brutalized 
by the treatment he has received, that he has no moral sense 
left, and no desire but to wreak his vengeance upon society 
generally, that same society will see to it that he has given 
him no chance to rise — no opportunity to redeem the past. 

Harry looked forward to his release with painful appre- 
hension. He was too young and healthy for the prison treat- 
ment to kill him outright. It might crush his spirit, and 
break his heart. It might sap his morals and develop every 
evil instinct of his nature; but' that he w r ould die, was too 
good to hope for. 

There were questions that pressed themselves upon him 


LIBERTY AND BONDAGE. 


143 


with painful urgency. Should he go hack to Graystone, and 
call upon the man he had regarded as his father, and seek 
his protection and help; or should he make for the great 
city and lose himself in the crowd? 

But, somehow, he could never give a definite answer to 
the question. Perhaps the wisest thing would be to go 
straight away to London directly his prison doors were thrown 
open; change his name, and try to make a fresh start. Yes, 
that would be no doubt the wisest course. 

“But I would like to see Madge again,” he would reflect. 
“Dear, faithful Madge! I am sure she has fretted a good deal. 
I wonder if anyone else has come along to comfort her. Dora 
used to declare that that young Independent parson was in 
lQve with her; but I expect that it was mere fancy on her 
part, though Dora had sharp eyes for her years. Dear me! 
by this time Dora will have quite grown up, — and Bob and 
Mother — I should like to look at them all once more — I 
should — I should — and Monica — ah! if it I could only look 
at her without being seen, I wonder if it would ease my 
heartache, or make it ache all the more.” 

So he debated the question, and the slow, weary days and 
nights grew into weeks and months, till there came an 
evening when his warder told him that on the following 
morning he would be free* 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE BREATH OF FREEDOM. 

RRY had lost none of his good conduct marks; 
hence his release came somewhat sooner than he 
expected. He heard the announcement in silence; 
he hardly knew whether to be sorry or glad. Eor 
a moment a thrill of joy ran through his heart; to be freed 
again opened up vistas of pleasure that had been denied him 
for many long and weary months; but the joy was only for 
a moment. The old feeling of despair swept over him again. 
What should he do with his freedom? Where should he go 
in his disgrace? How face the people whom he knew and 
who knew him? Or how, under a strange name and in a 
strange place, should he begin again? 

He scarcely slept a wink that night. Though he had 
' received the announcement of his freedom with no enthusi- 
asm, still he was strangely excited. Eor months, the old 
happy past had been gradually receding from his mind. 
The memory of it was becoming more and more dim. Prison 
life was imperceptibly dulling his faculties, the power to 
think was very much less than when he entered the prison. 
The entire system of jail discipline tended to obscure the 
mental vision, to dull the perceptions, to cloud the imagina- 
tion, to render the mind slow of movement and slow of com- 
prehension. 

But the announcement of the jailor that he was to be 
free on the morrow, was like an electric shock; it quickened 
every sense, it brought every faculty of his mind into play. 
The dull, stolid feeling rolled away from his heart, as if by 
magic. He felt himself once more alive; memory unlocked all 
her doors, and threw open all the windows; he felt another 
man. 

“To-morrow I shall be free,” he kept saying to himself, 
“and yet, what shall I do with my freedom? How shall I face 
the world again? How look into the eyes of those who knew 
pie, and who believed that I was guilty?” 



THE BREATH OF FREEDOM. 


145 


Just as the daylight began to creep into his cell, he fell 
into a heavy sleep, and when the prison bell sounded, it dis- 
turbed a very beautiful dream in which he was wandering 
across the fields around Graystone, with Monica by his side. 
The sun was shining brilliantly overhead, the birds were 
singing joyfully in the trees, a happy smile was on Monica’s 
lips, a beautiful light was shining in her eyes. He had been 
speaking to her, words of love, and she had responded with 
undisguised affection, and there was no thought of trouble 
in his heart, no memory of pain or disaster, the thread of his 
dream left out the bitter experience of the last two years, and 
wove pictures for him of unmarred delight and beauty. 

With something like a groan he opened his eyes. The. 
next moment his door was thrown open and the warder 
entered bringing the suit'of clothes that he had worn during 
his trial. It was very much crumpled, and looked as if it 
had lain in a rag heap for the last two years. Nevertheless, 
it was a relief once more to get out of his prison attire and 
into civilized raiment. 

What surprised him, however, was that the garments 
seemed to have stretched, during the past two } r ears. He did 
not realize how shrunken he was; how thin almost to emaci- 
ation he had become. Some of the prisoners grew stout on 
prison diet, and not only developed muscle but put on flesh 
with the work they had to do. 

It was not so, however, with him. His brain had been too 
active; his heart was too troubled, during the long months 
of his confinement. He had pined and fretted to such an 
extent that he had worn nearly all the flesh off his bones. Had 
there been a looking-glass in the room he would have started 
back aghast at the sight. His clean shaven face, thin and 
haggard; his closely cropped hair, his deep hollow eyes, his 
almost bloodless lips, would have been a revelation to him. 

It was fortunate he could not see himself just then; but 
the dressing process convinced him that a great change had 
been wrought in him physically as well as mentally. His 
clothes literally hung upon him, and he declared to the war- 
der that the wrong suit had been brought to him; .that these 
were the clothes of a much bigger man. 

“They are your own clothes,” the warder remarked, stiffly; 
Tut you have lost flesh for some reason since you came in,” 


146 


TO PAY THE PRICE. 


“Lost flesh,” Harry said, stripping up his sleeve, and look- 
ing at his thin arms; “well, I believe I have lost flesh; but it 
has been so gradual that I have not noticed it until now.” 

“You see, you have never been used to hard work before 
you came here/* the warder said. “We always know by peo- 
ple’s hands whether they have worked hard or no.” 

“I’ve worked hard enough since I came in, at any rate,” 
said Harry, with a poor attempt at. a laugh. A few minutes 
later his breakfast was brought in; but he had little appetite 
for it. He was still painfully excited. He was starting life 
afresh, and under entirely new conditions, and he was almost 
appalled at the prospect. 

By and by, the warder came into his cell again, and after 
certain preliminaries, he found himself, with several others, 
in the big courtyard. After a few minutes, the heavy prison 
gates were slowly opened, and, with the other prisoners, who 
that morning received their release, he went out into the Sep- 
tember sunshine. 

Here he was met by a missionary belonging to the Dis- 
charged Prisoner’s Aid Society, who offered to give him 
help, if he needed any, or to provide him with a breakfast, 
if the prison fare had not satisfied him that morning. 

Harry thanked the good man for his kindness, and said 
that he would receive any pecuniary help that might be 
offered him with gratitude, as he was quite destitute of funds, 
and a few minutes later he started out on his tramp with a 
shilling in his pocket. 

For a while, he walked with a certain aimlessness of man- 
ner; for he had not yet decided what to do. The missionary 
had given him some directions as to the different routes and 
directions in which they tended, and he had gone forth 
resolving that he would be guided in some measure by cn> 
cumstances, or by the impulses of his own heart. 

By and by, he reached four cross-roads, with a finger post 
standing in the center. One road led to London, another was 
the highway to York, the third road led to Cambridge, and 
the fourth to Bugby. For a few minutes he hesitated, then, 
looking at one of the finger posts, he said to himself: 

“This road will lead through Graystone. Shall I, or shall 
I not?” 

The question lay between Graystone and London, and in 


THE BREATH OE FREEDOM. 


14*7 

the end Graystone won. The mist came up in his eyes, as he 
thought of the old days, and of those whom he loved. “I 
should like to look upon the old faces once more,” he said 
to himself, “even if I do not make myself known. Madge, 
at any rate, will be glad to see me, and Bob — little Bob — 
it will do his heart good I believe to look into my eyes again.” 

Now and then, he forgot the fact that he was a dis- 
charged prisoner. The joy of freedom was in his heart once 
more; the smell of • the open country in his nostrils; the 
warmth and glory of the sunshine was all about him. But 
these moments of forgetfulness were always succeeded by a 
strong revulsion of feeling. He was a free man once more, 
it was true, and all the widestretching country was his to 
enjoy. His ears were open to the song of the birds, and his 
eyes to all the beauties of nature, and yet, and yet; what a 
difference between the present and the past. 

He thought of the last, long tramp he had with Madge; 
how they had wandered for miles across the open country; 
how they had returned together in the late afternoon, Madge 
leaning upon his arm and tramping bravely by his side. It 
seemed almost ages ago; it was his last excursion into the 
country. Now he was journeying to Graystone again, but 
in what a different mood. Now he walked alone, and won- 
dered what the end of his journey would bring. No picture 
of a happy welcome came to cheer him; but a dread lest those 
whom he loved should look upon him coldly, and, perhaps, 
close the door in his faee, lay like a weight on his heart. 

After several hours’ tramp, he turned in at a wayside 
public house and spent half his fortune in something to eat 
and drink, a junk of bread with a bit of cheese, and a mugful 
of cold water. Over the mantlepiece of the small parlor was 
a fly-blown mirror. He could scarcely repress an exclamation of 
surprise, when he first caught sight of his own reflection. In- 
stinctively he turned, fancying someone else was in the room, 
and that the face was that of a stranger. He was quite alone, 
however, and was soon convinced that the reflection he was 
looking at was that of himself. 

“I may venture to Graystone with impunity,” he said 
to himself, -a little bitterly; “for no one will recoginze me.” 
A hot blush swept over his face, as he ran his hand over the 
stuhble of his hair, and he muttered something like a curse. 


148 


TO PAY TEE PRICE . 

The sun was dipping westward when, at length, the sur- 
rounding country began to wear a familiar face. At length 
he had got into the region that he knew, and over which he 
had tramped. He recognized the outline of the hills. The 
churches and spires began to wear a familiar aspect. He 
was able, at length, to give a name to the farmsteads; steadily 
he was nearing Graystone. 

At length, people began to pass him whom he slightly 
recognized. They looked at him curiously, and passed on. 

“ I know them/’ he muttered to himself; ‘Tut evidently 
they do not know me.” Hearer and nearer he drew to the 
place where he had spent so many years of his life. It seemed 
a long time ago since he went away, and yet nothing had 
changed; the same cattle and sheep appeared to be in the 
fields; the same carts tumbled along the high road; the same 
farmers came slouching by, dressed in the same old clothes, 
and he could swear, almost, wearing the same shoes. Every- 
thing was familiar and unchanged — he alone was different; 
nothing else had altered in the smallest degree. 

By and by, he reached the brow of a hill which com- 
manded a full view of Graystone valley. He could just see, 
peeping among the trees, the gable end of his father’s house, 
the large garden also that stretched round at the back, and, 
at one side, was plainly visible in parts. He looked long 
and eagerly, wondering if he should see any figure moving 
among the flower beds and fruit trees, but the place' seemed 
quite deserted. On the other side of the road beyond was 
the fringe of trees that bounded Graystone Park. How often 
he had looked away between those trees for the flutter of 
a dress that should tell of Monica’s presence. 

Then the sound of horses’ hoofs, along the high-road he 
had come, attracted his attention. Brushing his hand quickly 
across his eyes, he turned round to see who might be driving 
that way. One glance was sufficient; he would have known 
them had they been a mile distant; as it was, they were close 
upon him, their faces clear and distinct in the bright sun- 
shine. His own face clouded as he looked at them, and his 
lip trembled. 

Monica had been giving her lover a lesson in driving. He 
sat on the box-seat with the reins in his left hand, and 
holding the whip in his right. Rupert Grant looked happy 


THE BREATH OF FREEDOM. 149 

and triumphant, a well-dressed, well-developed figure, that 
would attract a moment’s attention anywhere. 

By his side sat Monica, lovelier than in the old days. Her 
face was grave, and there was a wistful, pathetic look in her 
eyes. 

Harry loaned heavily against the gate, for his emotion 
almost overcame him. The sight of Monica was so unex- 
pected, that it threatened to unman him. She seemed differ- 
ent in some respects, though he was unable to make out just 
then in what the difference lay. She was less girlish in her 
appearance; her figure was more rounded; her face had more 
character in it; there seemed a greater reserve of strength 
about her mouth; her eyes wore a more serious expres- 
sion; her checks seemed thinner than when he saw 
her last, and yet the change was for the better. She 
had developed into a beautiful woman, with character written 
upon every line of her face, and his heart went out to her 
in a great longing, and his loss seemed more terrible than 
ever. The glimpse of her face awoke all his old passion and 
desire, while the sight of Bupert Grant by her side, looking 
so happy and triumphant, filled him with a mad passion 
of jealousy, and made him angrier than he had been since 
the day when he saw* him in the police court. Bupert was 
on the other side of the trap, and did not see the badly- 
dressed, emaciated figure, with a cloth cap pulled low over 
his forehead, standing with his back against the gate. Even 
if he had seen him, the chances are he would not have looked 
at him a second time. 

But there was something in Harry’s poise, something in 
the contour of his face, that caught Monica’s attention in a 
moment, and, with a little start, she bent her head forward, 
and looked at him keenly. Harry met her eyes without 
flinching. It was clear she did not recognize him, and yet 
there was something about him that , struck her as being 
familiar. Once or twice she took her eyes from him, but only 
to look again, and, after the trap had passed, he saw her turn 
in her seat, and look back with a swift, searching glance. He 
did not move a muscle of his face, however; he stood and 
stared as though he were an utter stranger. 

Then darkness fell upon him, and, with a groan, he 
climbed over the gate, and lay down upon the grass inside. 


150 


TO PAY THE PitlCEi 


and shut his eyes. Never had life seemed so dreary before; 
never had his heart ached with so much pain; never had he 
felt so acutely how much he had lost. 

After a while, he struggled to his feet again, and made his 
way along the road in the direction of Graystone. Nearer 
and nearer came the house that would always seem like home 
to him, and he began to watch eagerly for some sign of 
Madge, or Dora, or Bob, or his mother. 

At length, he could see the door, which was standing 
open; but no one passed in or out. It was about the time 
of day when they were in the habit of going into the garden, 
and he wondered that none of them were visible. Still on 
and on he tramped, getting nearer and nearer. Then he 
paused again, and leaned his back against a telegraph post 
For several minutes he looked at the house, but no one passed 
either in or out. It looked just as it used to do; it might 
be the same curtains hanging inside the windows; no change 
was visible anywhere; but why was it so deserted? 

Then with beating heart he walked straight past it, and 
looked in at the open door, and stared at all the windows, 
but there was no' familiar face. 

Beyond the house was the garden, and he stood and 
looked over the hedge, but no one was there. What could 
it mean? So he walked on a little distance toward the 
village, then paused again. It was his hope that he might 
see Madge, that she might recognize him; that from her lips 
he might get some advice as to what he should do in the 
future. 

For the space of a quarter of an hour he walked up and 
down, looking eagerly for the face of some member of the 
family. Then, with a strange fear gnawing at his heart, he 
walked straight up to the door and knocked. After two or 
three- seconds, he heard the sound of a footstep inside, and 
his heart gave a great bound. The next moment a strange 
face appeared in the passage, and an old woman came towards 
him. Then he knew that something had happened. 

“Does not Robert Morton live here?” he questioned. 

“O'h no!” was the reply; “he went away from here nearly 
two years ago.” 

“Indeed, I thought he was still living here.” 

“No, it was this way,” said the old woman. “He had 


THE BREATH OF FREEDOM. 


151 


a son who got into disgrace, and, somehow, he never could 
face the Graystone people any more, and so he went away.” 

“And do you know where he has gone to?” he asked. 

“He has gone to London, I believe; hut I don’t think 
anybody knows exactly his whereabouts.” 

Harry leaned his shoulder against the wall for support. 
He felt suddenly weak and faint. But he quickly recov- 
ered himself. 

“I knew Graystone very well at one time,” he said, as 
if in reply to the old woman’s inquiring glance; “but that 
was a good while ago. By the by I suppose Lord Menheriot 
is still living?” 

“Aye, and in better health, they say, than he’s been for 
years.” 

“And the Vicar, is he still the same?” 

“Aye, Mr. Grant ain’t likely to go, I reckon, until he’s 
carried out.” 

“And is Mr. Everett still minister at Bethel?” 

“Indeed, and I should think he is,” was the energetic 
reply. “Why this is the manse now, and I am his house- 
keeper.” 

“Oh, indeed! I did not know. I see time brings 
changes.” 

“That it does, and it’ll bring more,” the old woman said, 
becoming suddenly communicative. “'You know’d Mary 
Jones, very likely. Well, she’s dead, and John Tabb mar- 
ried her sister, and his sister Liza is to be married next 
month to Job Beer; you don’t know him, likely. Then Peggy 
Martin, she’s gone to London, and they do say she’s got 
engaged since she went. Then there’s to be> big doings at 
the Hall when Miss Monica’s tw'enty-one.” 

“Indeed?” 

“Yes, she’s to marry Mr. Kupert Grant, and a grand 
affair it is to be.” 

“She’s going to be married, is she?” 

“Aye, it’s been all settled a goodish time, now.” 

“Ah, well, young folks will get married,” he said, with 
a wintry smile, and then, with a pleasant good afternoon 
he turned, and walked out into the dusty road, and, after 
a moment’s hesitation, set his face towards London. 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE FATES ARE STRONG 

ENERALLY speaking, man has not much choice in 
the course he adopts. In the main, circumstances 
decide for him. Harry felt that he had no choice 
at ail. In the morning he stood for a moment at 
the parting of the ways, and there was one way only. 

“IPs a longish tramp to London,” he reflected; “but at 
any rate, I can take my time over it, and possibly I may 
be able to pick up a few coppers on the way.” 

By taking the field path to Minver, he would save half 
a mile on the journey; but that was not the only reason that 
actuated him. It might give him more pain than pleasure 
to walk the familiar way, but he could not resist the im- 
pulse. He might never come to Graystone again. In all 
probability he never would — this was his last farewell. So 
he would look his full; dream over his earlier dreams once 
more, and then go away and try to forget. 

The gray, turreted house came into sight at length, and 
he paused, for a few moments, to look at it. It was but a 
modest mansion in its way; squarely built, and without 
architectural distinction; but it had a comfortable look, while 
for situation it was all that could be desired. 

“Lucky dog, Rupert,” he said to himself, with a curl of 
his strong upper lip. “But I am glad I thrashed him when 
I had the opportunity — that is my one consoling morsel. 

“So he is to marry her, eh? Well, I have always fore- 
seen that. Socially, I suppose it is a very good arrange- 
ment; but she will break his heart, and he will break hers. 
By heaven, it ought not to be allowed. God meant her for 
me but — but — the devil has spoilt his plans.” 

At the boundary of the park was another stile, on which 
he sat and leaned 'his chin upon his hand. The twilight was 
creeping on apace. The birds had already ceased to sing. 
The quiet was absolutely unbroken. There was not even 
the distant bark of a watchdog to accentuate the stillness. 



TEE FATES ARE STRONG . 


153 


The coming darkness did not trouble Harry. He could 
tramp just as well during the night as during the day. In- 
deed, he preferred the darkness; it offered him a kind of pro- 
tection; it saved him from the peering eyes of passers by. 

Suddenly a quick footstep sounded behind him. He 
started, and turned his head, and found himself face to face 
with Monica. He saw in a moment that she recognized him. 
Her eyes were very bright, her lips were parted, her breath 
came and went in short gasps. 

“You thought I did not recognize you thi§ afternoon,” 
she said hurriedly, but with a forced calmness, “and I did not 
at first — you have greatly altered — but it came to me a min- 
ute later, and I have been looking out ever since for you.” 

“You should not be seen speaking to me,” he said quiet- 
ly. “Let me go my way, and you go yours.” 

“Then you had no desire to see me when you came to 
Graystone?” she questioned. 

“I came to see my sister Madge,” he stammered, “and — 
and — Dora, and Bob.” 

“And you find they are flown.” 

“Time brings many changes,” he said, after a pause, and 
with downcast eyes. 

“And have you changed?” she asked, with a certain hard- 
ness in her tone that he had never noticed before. 

“Me? God help me. I hardly recognize myself. I feel 
like a whipped hound. I have no strength or energy deft. 
If they had kept me another two years I should have started 
robbing houses when I came out, or picking pockets.” 
j “How you are talking at random,” she said, reproachfully. 

“At random,” and a strange light came into his eyes, 
like that which comes into the eyes of a beast at bay. “Ah, 
you do not know. You have never been in prison. I tell 
you they are murder houses; the bodies of men are kept 
alive, but their souls are murdered inch by inch.” 

She looked at him questioningly. 

“Yes, I have changed,” he answered, looking at her stead- 
ily, “and the truth has been growing clearer to me all the 
day. I have lost caste, if you can understand. I feel like 
a serf, or a beggar. I have scarcely courage to look any- 
one straight in the face. I want to slink away through 
by-lanes and hide in dimly-lighted places,” 


154 


TO PAT THE PRICE. 


“That is foolish of you,” she said, speaking low, and 
with an effort. 

“It may be. Perhaps I shall grow out of it in time. 
I don’t know. It’s hard for a man to rise and recover tone 
when no one believes in him.” 

“Don’t say that. I believe in you, and I am quite sure 
many other people do.” 

For a moment his eyes grew moist. 

“You are quite sure your confidence has not been shak- 
en?” he asked, pathetically. 

“Absolutely sure, Harry. I have . never doubted you for 
a moment.” 

“God -bless you!” he said; “but for your sympathy and 
the hope that you still believed in me, I should have died.” 

“I shall never cease to believe in you,” she answered; 
“the only thing I doubt — ” 

“Then you do doubt?” he questioned, eagerly. 

“Yes, I doubt if justice will ever be done. I used to 
have a belief that in the long run everything would come 
right, that God would outwit the evil man and see that 
right was done.” 

“And now?” he said, with the shadow of a smile upon 
his lips. 

“Oh, well! now I’m beginning to think that God let’s 
things work themselves out, just as they like. I reckon He 
keeps a general oversight, but He’s too much to do I fancy, 
to interfere in every little pettifogging affair that crops up.” 

“Then you don’t believe that I shall ever win back my 
own ?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t Harry. I’m convinced that thou- 
sands of people suffer innocently, and never get justice done 
to them to the end of the chapter.” 

“Pm very much of your way of thinking,” he answered. 
“I’m going to London, but I confess I have no hope.” 

“Then why go to London?” 

“Where else can I go? It is the valley of Hinnom to 
which all the social wreckage of the land drifts, or into which 
it is swept — the place where the worm dieth not, and the 
fire is not quenched.” 

“But need you walk into it deliberately; walk into it 
with your eyes open?” 


THE FATES ARE STRONG. 


155 


“Where else can I walk? It is the only door open to me. 
It is the bottomless pit I know; but every other door is 
closed” 

“No, not every other door, Harry,” she said at length, 
speaking slowly, and almost through her shut teeth. 

“Then what other door is open?” 

“Do you not see that it is possible that I might help you?” 

“You? No, it is impossible. I know you would like 
to help me, but — 'but — charity. No, I would rather die.” 

She grew very pale, and her lips twitched painfully. 
“There was a time,” she said, speaking slowly and distinctly, 
“when I thought that — that you cared for me.” 

“Cared for you!” he said, with a great gasp, and his 
eyes flashed fire in a moment. “Cared for you? Oh heaven! 
I shall die loving you with every fiber of my being.” 

“And yet you will not let me help you.” 

“I cannot. I cannot. Oh please do not torture me. 
Your good name would suffer, and I — I should curse myself 
into perdition.” 

For a while she was silent, and her breath came and 
went in quick short gasps. She felt that she was playing 
a desperate part, a part that perhaps no girl ought to play. 
But the sight of Harry, suffering and in need, awoke all 
her old love for him, and intensified it a hundred fold. She 
felt, too, as if Harry were the only one who could save her 
from the shame of marrying Rupert Grant. She was in a 
terrible strait. To let Harry go from her and sink down 
into despair, and want, and shame, while she had abun- 
dance, and in a few months would be her own mistress, would 
seem a wicked thing in the sight of heaven, a cruel and 
heartless thing, that would remain a pillow of thorns for 
her to the day of her death. And yet, could she tell him 
that she was prepared to take him as he was, in poverty and 
disgrace; that she loved him and would give her life into 
his keeping; that she would go to the ends of the earth 
with him and live where no one knew them, and make new 
friends and build up a new home? Oh! if she could make 
him understand, without putting it into so many words. If 
she were a man, she could speak out, and tell all the truth, 
but because she was a woman she must be dumb, though 
her heart broke. She must love and be silent. Oh! it was 


156 


TO PAY THE PRICE. 


cruel and wicked, and tears welled up in her eyes and fell 
upon her cheeks. 

He saw the tear drops and almost choked. 

“Don’t pity me, Monica,” he said, using her name for 
the first time. “I don’t want pity — it unmans a man.” 

“It seems to me you don’t want anything,” she said, des- 
perately. “You will neither receive help or give it.” 

“Now you mock me. How can I give when I possess 
nothing?” 

“Oh, why will you think that money meets the sum total 
of the world’s need? I have money in abundance, and yet 
I am sure no girl in England is as unhappy as I am.” 

“And could I make you less unhappy?” he asked, scarcely 
knowing what he said, or what reply to make. 

“Oh no, I suppose not!” she said, with a note of bitter- 
ness in her voice that was new to it. “There seems to be 
only one door open to me, as you say there is only one door 
open to you. So I must also drift into the ‘valley of Hin- 
nom’ where the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.” 

“But why? Surely — ” 

“Because there is no hand stretched out to save me,” 
she interrupted. “I suppose you know I have promised to 
marry Rupert Grant?” 

“Yes. I have heard,” he answered, compressing his 
teeth tightly. 

“And you are quite willing that I should?” 

“If you elect to marry Rupert Grant, or anyone else, I 
cannot interfere.” 

“If I elect to marry Rupert Grant?” she said, bitterly; 
“do you think I should do so from choice?” 

“You are surely your own mistress?” he answered. 

“Are you your own master? Can you do what you would? 
Have you never found circumstances too strong for you? 
Did you not say just now that there was only one course 
open to you?” She stood before him with burning cheeks, 
and a pleading light in her eyes. 

“I stand rebuked,” he said, and his eyes fell. “You have 
been forced into this.” 

“I have neither father nor mother, sister nor brother,” 
she replied, with a little catch in her voice. “I have no 
one to take my part, or save me from myself. I must just 


THE FATES ARE STRONG. 


157 


'go down with the flood, and you stand on the brink and 
see me drift.” 

“W ould to God that I could save you, Monica,” he said; 
“but I am more lielpiess than you.” 

“Oh, in olden times,” she said, clasping her hands and 
bending her head, “men dreamed of other lands, where life 
could be begun afresh, and new homes built up and estab- 
lished.” 

He started, and turned very pale. Could she mean all 
that her words implied, he wondered, and for a moment a 
great storm of passion and emotion shook him. What a 
dream of delight her words opened up to him. Monica 
would be his wife. Monica, the woman of all women, the 
fairest and noblest of all the daughters of Eve — at least so 
she seemed to him. And they would go away to some sunny 
land washed by southern seas; and they would dwell there 
and make new friends and rear a lovely home, and the old 
life of pain and struggle and disgrace would fade from their 
memories like an unpleasant dream, till it should lie no 
longer upon their lives, and they would do good spending 
their days in the service of their fellows, and children per- 
haps would grow up around them, and an honored old age 
would follow a well-spent life. 

On all grounds of self-interest and expediency, and even 
of rights, it seemed the proper thing to grasp this chance, 
and in saving himself, save Monica also. On the one hand, 
everything would be gained, and on the other, everything 
lost. 

Monica stood before him, white and trembling, waiting 
for him to speak. She had dared a great deal. She was 
amazed at herself, that she could have spoken so plainly, 
and yet it seemed to her that life, and even Eternity, were 
at stake. 

He had not the courage to meet her eyes. Of all the 
battles of his life, this was the hardest. He longed with al- 
most irresistible passion to take Monica in his arms and 
press his lips to hers, and tell her that nothing on earth 
should separate them any more. Never had she been so 
brave, so beautiful, so womanly in his eyes as now. 

And yet, and yet, in spite of logic, and self-interest, and 
policy, and every other consideration he felt that he must 


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resist. If he yielded, he knew he would call himself a cow- 
ard to the end of his days. While this stain remained upon 
his name, while the world believed him to be a forger, it 
would not be right to take this innocent and confiding girl 
to share his shame. Not even to save her from marrying a 
man she despised, and to save himself from being an out- 
cast, could he consent. It might be the merest sentiment; 
he did not know. He only felt that it would be even more 
degrading to his manhood and self-respect than residence in 
jail. 

He pretended to misunderstand her, when at length he 
spoke. “In the old day,” he said, “men carried off women 
by force, and knights went to their rescue; but the force used 
to-day is not physical, and lance and sword are of no use 
to you. But you may. be happy yet.” 

She dropped her eyes. It was not the answer she hoped 
or expected. 

He looked up at her, and waited for her to speak; but 
she made no reply. 

A long silence fell; then he held out his hand and said, 
“Good bye, Monica. If I were only strong myself, I would 
say to you, be strong; be true to yourself against the world, 
and follow your own heart, at all hazards. But I have no 
right to give advice to anyone.” 

Her eyes were brimming over when she raised them to 
his. “It is of no use struggling,” she said brokenly; “the 
fates are too strong. I wish I could die.” 

“I think I could struggle, if I were in your place,” he 
said. 

“And if I were a man, nothing should daunt me,” she 
answered. “Oh, I would conquer the world!” 

“I will try my best,” he said, “and if you hear of my 
utter failure, think kindly of me.” 

“No, you will succeed. I have always believed in you.” 

“And you, I have not only believed in, but loved, and 
always shall love — always — forever.” 

And without another word, he turned and walked away, 
and left her standing. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


RUPERT GETS IMPATIENT. 



URING the next twelve months, to all outward ap- 
pearances, nothing of importance happened. Mon- 
ica often wondered what had become of Harry, 
and whether he had succeeded or failed, hut no 
item of news respectig him ever found its way to Graystone. 
As a matter of fact, the Mortons were quite forgotten; no one 
spoke of them now. 

It was soon clear to Monica that no one excepting her- 
self had recognized Harry, on his return from prison, and, 
as the days slipped away, and grew into weeks and months, 
she half-wondered, sometimes, whether she had seen him, 
or whether that last strange interview with him was not all 
a dream. She sometimes tried to recall what she had said 
to him, or dreamed she had said, hut she was never very 
successful in this. Sometimes she feared that her heart 
had run away with her judgment, that she had said more 
than she ought to have said. At other times, she told her- 
self that if she had put her scruples aside and spoken a little 
more plainly, he would have allowed her to help him, and 
the way might have been paved for the future happiness 
of both. Xow she was angry with him for being so blind 
and stupid, and now she was angry with herself for speaking 
to him at all. 

Meanwhile, Rupert Grant was exercising all his wiles upon 
Monica to get her to fix an early date for the marriage. He 
foresaw not only difficulty, hut danger, if the wedding was 
not consummated soon, though what the danger was he kept 
resolutely to himself. 

At present, his position was a most unpleasant one, and 
in a few weeks’ time would he much more so, unless he played 
his cards with great courage and skill. 

Rupert’s father was just as anxious that the marriage 
should take place^ quickly, as he. A young man with aris- 
tocratic tastes is an expensive luxury. He saw, too, that Ru- 


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pert was worrying himself a good deal, though he did not 
know all the reasons for that, nor did any one else. Rupert 
was careful to keep his own counsel. 

As the prospective husband of Monica Stuart, the heir- 
presumptive to the Graystone and Menheriot estates, Rupert 
made no attempt to improve his financial position. It was 
much pleasanter to play the gentleman at Graystone, than 
to hang about the Law Courts and Lincoln’s Inn. Briefs 
were for impecunious wretches who had no expectations, but 
for heirs of earldoms, they were not worth considering. 

Nevertheless, it was very irritating to be in a chronic 
state of impeeuniosity, and he was infinitely more angry 
with Monica than he dared reveal. 

She began to think, after awhile, that he was either re- 
markably fond of her, or else that he was the best-tempered 
man alive. Yet her liking for him did not grow in the 
smallest degree. She had given her heart to another, and 
there could never be any room in her affections for Rupert 
Grant. 

It was six months after Monica’s interview with Harry, 
that Rupert pressed for a limit to be put to the time of his 
waiting. 

“To one of my temperament, Monica,” he said, “you must 
see that this uncertainty is very trying.” 

“I don’t know why it should be,” she answered. “You 
are free now to do as you like. You may not be so free 
afterwards.” 

“Ah, Monica, I am willing to risk all that as you know. 
I wish you knew also how much I loved you.” 

“I will give you credit for being patient with me,” she 
said, with a smile, “and I am sure you will need all your 
patience, for I shall be a terrible vixen when I get old.” 

“I am not in the least afraid of that,” he said, blandly; 
“but what I want to know now is, Gannot you put an end 
to this uncertainty and fix a limit to this waiting?” 

“You mean that you want me to fix the date?” 

“No, I do not ask you to do that now. I simply want 
you to fix a maximum of time beyond which the marriage 
shall not be delayed.” 

. “I am not quite certain that I see what you mean,” she 
said, demurely. 


RUPERT GETS IMPATIENT. 


161 


“Well, you might say, for instance, that the marriage 
shall not be delayed beyond the present — •” 

“Century!’ 7 she interrupted. 

“You are very tantalizing, Monica,” he said, gently; “I 
am sure you do not realize how I hunger to call you my wife.” 

“I am sorry for you,” she answered; “I am sure you will 
find me a most unsatisfying portion.” 

“Let us not discuss that, please. Will you not promise 
me that the marriage shall take place within the present 
year?” 

“That is, within the next nine months?” she questioned. 

“Yes, Monica, that gives you a large amount of margin.” 

“Well, I will think about it. If you are very good, per- 
haps I will.” 

“Then I may take that as a promise?” 

She looked at him steadily, but did not speak. 

“Silence gives consent,” he said, with a gay laugh. 

She still looked at him, with a curious, half-pathetic 
light in her eyes. He was very good-looking, and certainly 
he had been very kind. She would have to marry him sooner 
or later — that seemed to be her fate. ’Perhaps she had bet- 
ter get it over. When once she was married, she would 
give up her day-dreams, and settle down to domestic life. 

“All right, Rupert,” she said at length. “Men always 
get their own way in the long run,” and she walked across 
to the window and looked out over the lawn. 

“I am sure you will not regret it, Monica, and you have 
made me very happy.” * 

She did not reply, and soon after he took his departure. 

She stood and watched him as he walked away from the 
house. Once he turned and smiled back at her, but she 
did not return the smile; she felt more like crying. 

“I wonder if girls ever marry the man they love best,” 
she said to herself, and her lips trembled in spite of herself. 
“I don’t expect they do. They hava-their dreams, and they 
weave their romances, and after that comes the hard reality. 
They have to take the most eligible man that offers and 
make-belie,ve all the rest. The world is terribly hard on a 
woman. She cannot tell a man that she loves him, and 
if he never speaks she must pine in silence, or later on 
marry someone else whom she doesn’t care two straws for. 


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I don’t suppose my case is worse than millions of others, 
and yet a million wrongs cannot make a right. Very likely 
some other girl is breaking her heart for Rupert; I wish 
she would come and marry him by sheer force." 

Meanwhile, Rupert was covering the space between the 
Hall and the Vicarage in a state of great elation. 

“She’ll not want to be married in December," he said 
to himself, “nor in November, nor in October. September 
is the very latest she can put it off, if she wants to go abroad, 
and very likely she’ll consent to a month earlier than that. 
I think I’m safe now, barring accidents. That was a good 
move of mine to get her to fix a maximum. Let me see, 
it’s the twenty-eighth of March to-day. If I only play my 
cards well, we may get it over in June," and he chuckled 
good-humoredly. 

Then his face clouded. “There’ll be an awkward interval 
to get over in any case," he went on. “Very awkward; but 
I think it can be managed." 

Nevertheless, the cloud did not lift from his face. His 
anticipations were considerably weighed by his apprehen- 
sions. 

Monica was still looking with unseeing eyes across the 
landscape, when her guardian entered the room. She did 
not notice his entrance, and his footfalls made no sound on 
the thick pile carpet. 

For a moment or two he stood and looked at her. “I 
don’t wonder Rupert is anxious to marry her," he reflected, 
“for she has certainly developed into a very beautiful woman. 
I wish he were more worthy of her. I do upon my honor," 
and the Earl sighed. 

A moment later Monica caught sight of him, and turned 
and greeted him with a kiss. 

“I am sorry to break in upon your day-dreams," he said. 

“You need not apologize," she answered. “I am glad to 
have them broken up." 

“Ah!" he questioned, “I thought a maiden’s day-dreams 
were always pleasant." 

“Then you see you were mistaken for once. Rupert has 
been here." 

> “I’m afraid I don’t quite see the connection," he said, 
raising his eyebrows and smiling. 


TO PAT THE PRICE. 


163 


“And, as usual, lie wants me to fix the day for the wed- 
ding.” 

“Which ought to prove a very pleasant task .” 

“But, as it happens, proves nothing of the kind.” 

“That is unfortunate .” 

“I am rapidly coming round to the opinion of the Apostle 
Paul.” 

“Which is?” 

“That people should not marry.” 

“And for the same reasons that he gives?” 

“I know nothing about his reasons. But I have plenty 
of my own.” 

The Earl laughed. 

“Rupert is very anxious to settle down to domestic life,” 
Monica went on. 

“Well, it’s about time he settled down to something,” 
the Earl remarked, dryly. 

“Yes, I think that myself, and for that reason I have set 
a limit.” 

“A limit to w r hat?” 

“To our engagement.” 

The Earl started. “You do not mean that you have 
broken with him?” 

“I am sorry there is no such luck. No, I have consented 
that 'the wedding shall take place before the year is out.” 

“That is within the next nine months?” 

“Exactly.” 

“Which means most likely that you will marry before 
the summer is over.” 

“No. Why should it?” 

“Because, possibly you will want to go abroad and you 
will not care to travel in the dead of winter.” 

“I never thought of that,” she answered, with a troubled 
look in her eyes. 

“In any case a few weeks earlier or later can make no. 
difference,” the Earl remarked, reflectively. 

“No. I suppose that is so,” she answered, slowly, and 
she walked again toward the window. 

Lord Menheriot took two or three turns about the room, 
with a look of perplexity in his eyes. Then he paused sud- 
denly by her side. 


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“There is one matter that I think it only right you should 
know before— well, before you are any older.” 

She turned suddenly, and looked at him* His face was 
very grave, and his lips had become suddenly pale. 

“It may not affect your actions in the smallest degree,” 
he went on slowly, and with evident effort. “Nevertheless, 
I think it is only right you should know. I should not 
like you to fall foul of me later on and say, ‘You should 
have told me all this sooner/ ” 

“I cannot imagine what you are driving at,” she said 
with a half-frightened laugh. 

“Come and sit down, Monica. I cannot explain every- 
thing in a minute.” 

She walked across the room slowly and dropped into an 
easy chair: 

“The truth is,” said Lord Menheriot, speaking like a man 
who had braced himself to an unpleasant task and was re- 
solved to carry it through. “I have only recently begun 
to consider seriously certain contingencies, or perhaps I ought 
to say rather reconsider them. Some time ago I thought I 
had settled the matter once and for all. Recent events, how- 
ever, have compelled me to reopen it, with the result that 
what I once deemed an absolute impossibility promises now 
to become an accomplished fact.” 

Monica listened to all this in open-eyed astonishment, 
and wondered when her guardian would condescend to come 
down from generalities and talk in a way that she could 
understand. 

‘*1 cannot say that so far I have got very much light,” 
she said, in a tone of banter. “Perhaps I shall get at your 
meaning later on.” 

The Earl frowned, then smiled, then tugged hard at his 
moustache. 

“I think you will understand by-and^by,” he said at 
length. “But as usual you are very impatient.” 

“Am I? Em dreadfully sorry. But I can assure you 
Pm all attention and am dying, of curiosity.” • 

“Then let me ask you a question, Monica. Would it 
affect your relationship with Rupert if you knew 
there was a possibility that he would never be Earl of 
Menheriot?” 


RUPERT GETS IMPATIENT , 


165 


“I don’t know exactly what you mean/’ she said, lean- 
ing forward and staring hard at him. 

“I just mean what I say. At present you believe and 
he believes that he is heir to the Graystone estates. But 
suppose it should turn out after all that he is not the heir, 
but that somebody else has a prior claim? Would you feel 
toward him as you do now?” 

“I suppose so,” she said, slowly, with a wondering expres- 
sion in her eyes. “I don’t see how it could make any dif- 
ference. You don’t suppose that when I yielded to your 
request and his that I was influenced by the prospect of a 
title, do you?” 

“Well, Monica, it seems to me that it might have been 
a factor in the case.” 

“Then I assure you it was not. The chief thing was 
you wanted me to marry him. He seemed as good as any 
one else and .better than most, and so — well, I consented.” 

“Then you are not ambitious for a title?” 

“Ambitious? I have wished scores of times I was only 
a farmer’s daughter.” 

The Earl smiled, arid looked relieved. Then a somewhat 
awkward silence fell between them. Lord Menheriot had 
evidently more to say, though he seemed somewhat at a 
loss how to say it. 

At length he turned suddenly, and said: “I think it 
only fair, Monica, that I should give you my complete con- 
fidence in this matter. I know I may trust you not to say 
anything until I give you permission.” 

“I will respect your wishes,” she said, quietly. 

“Very good,” and after another moment of silence the 
Earl began his story, 


CHAPTER XXII. 


CONFESSION. 

T is a common enough story,” the Earl began, “and 
though I have kept it secret for five-and-twenty 
years, I am not certain that I altogether regret 
it, or am ashamed of it. I was a young man, 
then, and, like other young men, had my romatic 
days. I was but a simple ‘Mr./ without a thought 
of ever bearing a title, for my father at that time 
had no idea, I think, of being anything more than a 
life peer. Well, I fell in love and married without my fath- 
er’s consent. My wife was pretty and good r and for two 
years we lived as happily together as I fancy ordinary peo- 
ple do in this world. Then she died, leaving a week-old 
baby. I knew nothing about her people; they w r ere only or- 
dinary working folk, as I understood; but they took charge 
of the little fellow, and promised to bring him up, I, of 
course, to supply all the funds necessary for the purpose. 
But a few months later I was told that the child was dead. 
So ended my early romance. As you know, later on I mar- 
ried my present wife, but now comes the strange part of 
the story. A year or two ago, I found out by accident that 
the baby did not die, as I had been told, that, oil the con- 
trary, he had grown up to be a strong and healthy man. 
Then came the question, What should I do? Should I ac- 
knowledge to the world my early and secret marriage, and 
make this unknown young man my heir, or should I let 
him remain in the position in which he had been brought 
up and for which he was fitted, and allow -Rupert Grant, 
my nephew, to come into possession of Graystone at my 
decease? 

“This was a question that perplexed me very consider- 
ably, and for a long time I hesitated, now swaying to one 
side and now to the other. It might not be an altogether 
kind thing to lift the lad from the surroundings in which 
be had been reared, and place him in a position for which 



CONFESSION 


167 


he was not fitted, while it would be a terrible disappoint- 
ment to Rupert, who naturally looked forward to being lord 
of Graystone. 

“Moreover, there were many other considerations that I 
need not mention, which at length decided me to let mat- 
ters remain just as they were. I concluded that the young 
man would be happier in the condition in which he had 
been reared; that never having any expectations, he would 
not be disappointed; that Rupert also would do credit to 
the name, and that, all things considered, I had better 
keep my secret to myself. 

“But somehow or other, a change has come over my feel- 
ings. They say, you know, that blood is thicker than water. 
It is so, no doubt. I cannot but feel that my own child 
has the first claim upon me. Whether it be a kind thing 
to search for him, and lift him into this position or not, 
is not for me to say; it is simply a question of right and 
justice. Day by day -I am steadily reaching the conviction 
that my own son must have his proper place whatever the 
consequences may be. 

“It may be trying for me to confess to the world the 
story of my early romance; it will, no doubt, awaken a great 
deal of talk, and be the subject of endless gossip in all ranks 
of society. That I must face. Somehow, Monica, we never 
fully escape the consequences of any of our actions; sooner 
or laterwe have to reap the harvest of our doings, and I can 
see clearly that, soon or late, I shall have to face the in- 
evitable, and restore my own child to his rightful position.” 

During this recital Monica sat with her hands clasped 
across her knee, staring into the fire. She did not interrupt 
the Earl by a single question; she allowed him to go on to 
the end of his story; then fell a somewhat prolonged silence. 
The Earl looked at her steadily, but she did not raise her 
eyes to his. 

“I- know you are greatly surprised,” he said at length, 
“but I felt it only right that you should know.” 

“I thank you for telling me,” she said, “though I do 
not know that I am very greatly surprised; it takes a great 
deal to surprise people nowadays.” 

“And you do not blame me for thinking that my own 
son has the first claim upon me?” 


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“No, I do not blame you at all, though I think, perhaps, 
it would have been better if you had taken this step directly 
you discovered that your son was alive.” 

“There were so many contingencies to be faced,” he said, 
flushing slightly, “that I thought I had better consider all 
sides of the question first.” , 

“And Rupert knows nothing of this?” she questioned. 

“Not yet," he answered; “of course I shall tell him every- 
thing later on.” 

“And when will you bring this son of yours to Gray- 
stone?” she asked, after a pause. 

“That I cannot tell. I do not know at present where 
he is, and I may have some difficulty in finding him.” 

“Directly you find him of course you will bring him 
home?” 

“Well, I hope I may be able to do so,” he answered with 
some hesitation; “'of course there are many matters in a 
case like this that require adjustment. It is impossible to 
foresee all the difficulties that may arise.” 

“I presume your son will not raise any difficulty,” Mon- 
ica said, with just a touch of cynicism in her tone. 

“I presume not,” he answered; “of course I cannot tell 
yet; everything depends upon his disposition and the way 
he looks at the question.” 

“It is not often,” she answered,. “that people knowingly 
put hindrances in the way of their good fortune.” 

“He may not consider it good fortune,” the Earl answered. 

“Oh, won’t he?” she answered, with a little toss of her 
head, “it is the one thing the world goes mad over. To be 
rich, to live in big houses, seems to be the one ambition 
of people. They do not think that there may be just as 
much misery in a mansion as in a cottage. If they only 
knew they would not be so eager in their race for riches. 
But there, what is the use of talking?” 

“Then you will not be altogether sorry for Rupert?” he 
questioned. 

“Oh, I don’t know; he looks at things from a different 
standpoint. I think I am very sorry for him. He has built 
so much upon it, he has considered himself so long to be 
the heir to the Graystone estates, it will be a great disap- 
pointment to him.” 


/V 


CONFESSION. 


169 


“No doubt it will. I confess that Rupert has been my 
principal difficulty in the case. But please, do not say a 
word to him of what I have told you. I want to do all that 
myself.” 

“I shall say nothing to him about the matter,” she an- 
swered. 

“Of course,” he said, rising slowly to his feet and mak- . 
ing a movement toward the door, “this makes a considerable 
difference in your prospects as well.” 

“You need not consider me in the matter in the least,” 
she answered; “I have no desire to be the bearer of a title; 

I am quite content as I am.” 

“And you think it will make no difference in your re- 
lationship to Rupert?” he asked with some hesitation. 

“I do not see why it should,” • she replied; “indeed, I 
think I shall like him all the better in misfortune,” and she 
turned and stared into the fire again. 

When the Earl had left the room, she rose to her feet, 
and began to pace slowly up and down with her hands locked 
behind her back and her head bent slightly forward. She 
felt that the story to which she had listened would mean 
a great deal to her. If the Earl was going to bring to Gray- 
stone a young man, it might be of doubtful antecedents, of 
defective education, possibly a mere country clown, then her 
position might be a very uncomfortable one. Day by day 
she would have to be thrown into his company whether she 
liked it or no. She would have to meet him at table, to 
sit with him possibly in the drawing-room, to be thrown 
into intimate contact with him in a dozen different ways. 
He might be vulgar and aggressive and impertinent. He 
might even try to make love to her. Indeed, she saw, or 
fancied she saw, that this new arrival at Graystone might 
make her life almost intolerable* 

“Perhaps it is a good thing that I have promised to marry 
Rupert,” she said to herself at length; “it will be an escape 
for me, and my fortune will be some compensation for him. 
Poor Rupert, I do feel sorry for him after all. It will be 
a terrible disappointment;” then she sat down and stared 
into the fire again. 

“If he wants to get married soon,” she said to herself 
at length, with a weary, wistful expression in her eyes, “I 


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don’t think I will raise any more objections. I have pronr- 
ised to marry him before the year is out. Perhaps the 
sooner it is over the better. I shall escape from Graystone 
and the company of the young man who is to be brought 
here; and really, everything seems to be conspiring to the 
•same end. I think it must be my fate, and it is of no use 
trying to resist, and it is of less use complaining. I had 
better make the best of it. Perhaps I shall be happier 
than I think. Rupert professes to be very fond of me, and 
I think he does like me a good deal. I sometimes wonder 
•at his patience, for I fear I have not treated him very well 
on the whole.” 

Then by a quick transition her thoughts ran off to Harry 
Morton, and she found herself in imagination walking with 
him again across the fields and listening to his voice which 
was always as music in her ears; but she was quickly brought 
back to her present surroundings, and with a little sigh 
she said, “If I had never seen Harry perhaps everything 
would have been different. Perhaps I shall forget him when 
I am Rupert’s wife. Most people have their little romance 
when they are young, but they grow out of it, they say. 
Perhaps I shall grow out of this.” And with a resolute air 
she got up, and went off to the library and fetched a book 
and sat herself down to read. 

A few weeks later, when she and Rupert were walking 
home from church one Sunday evening, he broached the 
subject again which seemed ever uppermost in his mind. 

“I have been thinking, Monica,” he said, “that it would 
be much better if we got married early in the year. We 
cannot travel abroad in winter. But if we got married in 
the summer we might spend a long holiday on the Continent. 
Think how pleasant it would be rambling from place to 
place.” 

“I don’t think we need holidays very much, Rupert,” 
she said with a smile; “at any rate in your case you seem 
to have had a perpetual holiday for the last year or two.” 

“How, please, don’t be unkind,” he said with a laugh; 
“I have really worked harder than you think.” 

“I am glad to hear that you have been working at all,” 
she said; “if you have been really working hard then of 
course you deserve a holiday.” 


CONFESSION. 


171 


“And don’t you think we may go a why together?” he 
questioned. 

“Well, perhaps we may if you are very good,.” she said, 
a little shyly. 

“Have you thought upon a possible date?” he questioned. 

“No, I cannot say I have,” she replied; “the truth is I 
do not think any more about the matter than I can help.” 

“But there is no real objection, is there, why we may 
not be married soon?” he questioned. 

“No, I do not think there is any formidable objection,” 
she replied. 

“Well, it is April now,” he said. “How long do you 
require to get ready?” 

“Well, you might allow me two months, at least,” she 
replied. 

“Then we will say toward the end of June?” he ques- 
tioned, delightedly. 

“Yes, if you particularly wish it,” she answered. 

“Oh, Monica, you are a darling,” he cried, impulsively; 
“you have made me the happiest man on earth.” 

“I hope you will always he as happy, Rupert,” she said; 
“I will try my best to be a good wife to you.” 

“I am sure you will, Monica,” he replied with effusion; 
“and I will be so good to you that you will never regret 
our marriage to the day of your death.” 

“I trust we shall neither of us regret it,” she answered, 
looking away across the distant fields, “but we had better 
not build too much upon it. Blessed are they who expect 
little, you know, for they shall not be disappointed.” 

“Nay, rather blessed are they who expect much,” he 
answered, and when he had seen Monica safely in the 
house he hurried home to the vicarage to tell his father 
and mother that the wedding was to take place at the end of 
June. 

Durig the next few weeks preparations went gayly for- 
ward for the wedding, though it was decided for many 
reasons that it should be a quiet affair. Lady Menheriot, be- 
ing such a confirmed invalid, could not of course take part 
in the ceremony. Moreover, Rupert himself seemed anxious 
that it should not be a very public function. For some rea- 
son or other of late he had changed his views, and declared 


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that he believed in quiet weddings, the quieter the better; 
the fewer the people that knew of it the more he would be 
pleased, and as this view coincided exactly with Monica’s 
it was decided that very few people should be invited, and 
that all announcements as far as possible should be kept out 
of the press. 

So, without any fuss or ostentation, the preparations went 
steadily forward. Monica was quietly interested; on the 
whole, she was glad that a date had been fixed. She seemed 
more at ease and more content now that her fate seemed 
to be definitely sealed. She did her best also to discover 
in Rupert qualities that were by.no means conspicuous. She 
tried to look with kindly eyes on his failings and to magnify 
all his virtues. That he was exceedingly kind to her no 
one could deny. Moreover, all agreed that in the main he 
was a handsome and manly fellow, such a young man as 
most girls would be proud of. 

She received the congratulations of her few friends with 
quiet resignation, but she never manifested the least enthusi- 
asm. She had an idea that the world was a vast sacrificial 
altar, and that one half of the human race was offered up 
in atonement for the sins of the other half. As it hap- 
pened, she was one of the victims; she belonged to that half 
that had to suffer. For whose sins or wrong doings she 
had to pay the penalty, she did not know, nor did it matter 
very much. 

She tried to look at the matter as philosophically as pos- 
sible; she hoped that she was doing some good. Her guard- 
ian seemed to be exceedingly pleased at the arrangement; 
he regarded her marriage as compensation for Rupert. He 
would not get the title, it is true, but he would have the 
handling of her considerable wealth, while he, the Earl, 
would be able to bring home his own son now without any 
compunction of conscience. 

Monica seemed rather surprised that he did not appear 
during the wedding preparations to make any effort to find 
his son. 

“He is waiting until I have taken my departure/ 5 she 
would sometimes say to herself; “perhaps after all it is best. 
I am not at all anxious to see this wonderful individual 
who has lived in obscurity all his life and now is to be 


CONFESSION. 


178 


raised to fortune, and I can understand that Guardy is anx- 
ious to put off the evil day as long as possible.” - 

Now and then, in spite of herself, her thoughts wandered 
away to Harry Morton, and she wondered if he were fail- 
ing in the struggle of life, or if -somewhere he was fighting 
his way to success, but she thought that the latter was hardly 
probable. 

-If he were succeeding I think he would let me know 
in some way,” she would say to herself, *“but as he does not 
let me know, and keeps himself out of sight, I think the 
chances are that he is failing. Poor Harry, I wish I could 
help him. He is another who is offered up on the world’s 
great sacrificial altar; he, too, is paying the price of another’s 
sin. It is a strange world, and I do not understand it. Per- 
haps there is another life where the wrongs of this shall be 
rectified, where those who have suffered shall receive com- 
pensation.” 

So the days gradually slipped away and grew into weeks. 
The spring ripened into summer, and Graystone never looked 
more beautiful, the trees were never in richer foliage, never 
did the flowers bloom more abundantly. It was an ideal 
summer, and Monica tried to regard it as in some way the 
promise and prophecy of her future life. 

As the time drew near for the wedding Rupert became 
more and more restless. He took frequent journeys to Lon- 
don, ostensibly to look after the house that the Earl had 
taken for them in Bayswater, but really to look after mat- 
ters that more nearly concerned himself. Monica could not 
fail to notice his restlessness. How and then she chided 
him about it, and he would laughingly answer her that he 
felt he was undeserving of so much happiness, and was almost 
afraid sometimes that he might wake up and find it all a 
dream. But even while a gay laugh was on his lips she 
was quick to note an apprehensive glance in his eyes and 
an alertness in his manner that she could not understand. 

At length it wanted but a week to the wedding, and 
everything was in readiness for the ceremony. Nearly all 
her dresses were completed; the London house had been 
partly furnished by Rupert and her guardian. Once or 
twice she herself had gone up to look after matters and 
choose the furniture and carpets. It was arranged that after 


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the ceremony they should go for a week into Scotland; then 
they should return to London to their own house and spend 
a few weeks, after which they should go on the Continent 
and remain until the autumn, when they would come back 
and complete the furnishing of their dwelling. 

Monica was alone in the drawing-room, and as usual she 
was thinking. 

“One week more/ 5 she was saying to herself, “and the 
old life will be over forever, and my destiny will be fixed 
irrevocably. Only another week, and all the dreams I have 
cherished will be at an end. Well, better so, better so.” 

Then a knock came to the door. She looked up with a 
startled expression; the next moment the door was thrown 
open, and a tall, handsome and well-dressed lady advanced 
timidly toward her. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


AGAINST THE TIDE. 

EANWHLIE Harry Morton was experiencing the 
common lot of those who are “down.” It seemed 
to him sometimes as if the whole world had entered 
into a conspiracy against him. He had tried his 
best, and again and again he appeared to be on 
the highway to success; but the sequel was always the same. 
No sooner did he get two or three steps up the ladder, than 
some one kicked it away from under him, and he found him- 
self at the bottom once more, stunned and bruised by the fall. 

It was a constant surprise to him that just at the most 
inopportune moment, as far as he was concerned, it was 
always discovered that he had been in jail. He made a 
fresh start in almost every part of London, and it seemed 
impossible that among so many millions any one should 
recognize him or know anything about him; but London 
proved but a small place after all. Try as he would, he 
could never hide himself for very long together. 

. At first he resolved that he would stick to his own name 
and face it out; but he soon changed his mind. It was 
wonderful what a memory some people had for names? The 
great forgery case might have been a matter of yesterday. 
And the mere mention of his name recalled the whole cir- 
cumstance to many people’s minds in a moment. 

But he fared very little better under an alias. The truth 
always came out sooner or later, and the truth was fatal 
to his advancement. Men refused to work with him, and 
employers unceremoniously dismissed him from their ware- 
house or yard. The fact that he was a good servant and at- 
tended diligently to his work did not avail him in the least. 
“Once a rogue, always a rogue,” seemed^ to be the world’s 
motto, and Harry was given little or no chance of proving 
that he was an honest man. 

Still, the man who cannot command a good character, 
finds that his choice of occupation is strictly limited. The 



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crossing sweeper bears no relationship to the official scav- 
enger, and the dustman looks down with more or less of 
contempt upon the man who wheels a costers barrow. Harry 
tried in vain to get what may be termed official recognition 
— to penetrate to that i^ner circle of labor. He had not 
realized before how universal was caste. 

As a working man, his manner and_education were against 
him. It was evident to every one that he was not to the 
manner born. Working men regard with suspicion the in- 
trusion of a gentleman into their ranks. Generally speaking, 
he does not come from choice, and just as frequently he 
does not leave from choice. 

In the space of twelve months, Harry played many parts. 
He tried his hand at reporting when he first went up to 
London, and was on the point of getting a permanent post 
when he was found out. Then he betook himself to the 
British Museum and worked up several popular articles for 
popular magazines, one of which he got accepted; then some- 
body recognized him. Then he turned to carrying a hod 
during the day, and to writing fiction at night, and in six 
months he had made such a hit with 'two short stories, that 
he was invited out to dinner. Foolishly he accepted the 
invitation, for he was pining for just a breath of educated 
society. Long before the evening was oyer, a whisper ran 
round the room. Within half an hour of the start of that 
whisper, he was as much shunned as if he had small-pox. 
After that, his stories were returned to him. 

He stuck to the hod, for it meant bread and cheese. Then 
the timekeeper fell ill, and he applied for the post and got 
it. A week later he was dismissed. Somebody had recog- 
nized him. 

If he could have been content to remain in the outer 
circle of labor, he would have experienced fewer vicissitudes. 
But he was not content. He wanted something better. The 
words of Monica constantly rang in his ears — “If I were a 
man I would conquer the world,” and he wanted to prove 
to her that he was a. man, worthy of her confidence and 
trust, and that though they never met again, she might hear 
afar off that he had played his part bravely and won. 

But he lost heart after awhile. A man may bear up 
under one reverse or ten. But the constant dropping wear§ 


AGAINST THE TIDE . 


177 


away the stone. Besides, he lacked the hope and inspiration 
of an earlier time. The idea of ever winning Monica had 
yielded to the inevitable. He cpuld not save her. She 
could not or would not save herself. Tor ail he knew, she 
was already Rupert Grant's wife. Her destiny was sealed. 
So was his. It was of no use fighting against fate. He 
might as well drift with the tide, and mane the best of it. 
Two years' imprisonment meant a lifetime's doom. The 
real punishment begins when the term expires. The reason 
why discharged prisoners return again to the cells is easy 
of explanation. There is nothing else for them. The out- 
side world will not give them a chance. 

Harry sometimes wished that his sentence had been for 
life. He was just as solitary in the crowd as in the cell, 
with a hundred cares and anxieties that an inside prisoner 
does not feel. 

One hot afternoon early in June, he was loitering along 
the shady side of Cheapside. The pavements were thronged 
with people, and all the street was gay with color and move- 
ment. He had been unable to earn anything for three whole 
days, consequently he was feeling more than usually de- 
pressed. The rapidly shifting panorama of human life, 
which, generally speaking, exhilarated, now saddened him. 
Everyone appeared to have something to do but himself. 
All were eager and alert, intent on some mission or enter- 
prise. He alone slouched along without aim, with no end 
soever in view. 

Suddenly, amid the thronging mass of vehicles an open 
landau appeared drawn by two spanking chestnut horses, 
resplendent in gold-mounted harness. The driver and foot- 
man were faultlessly dressed in light grey livery, and wore 
cockades in their hats. In the carriage sat two gentlemen, 
the one short, stout, florid, the other taller and thinner and 
with a less florid complexion. The short man was the 
younger of the two and apparently the happier; his face 
beamed "with merriment,, his full eyes sparkled with good 
humor. 

The older man looked less healthy than his companion; 
perhaps that was the reason he looked less happy. Plis face 
was puffy, especially under the eyes, which were dull and 
heavy, as though he had dined late and not too wisely. His 


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mouth was pulled down at the corners, which gave him a 
melancholy expression. 

Both men were exceedingly well dressed. Their silk hats 
might have been lifted out of the band box that afternoon 
for the first time. They wore scarfs of the same style, each 
adorned with a massive diamond pin which literally blazed 
in the sunshine. Their hands were encased in well-fitting 
kid gloves. 

All this Harry took in in a moment. Then his eyes became 
riveted on the older man. Was it true that every man has 
his double? Here was Robert Morton with a slight differ- 
ence — a difference between opulence and impecuniosity, be- 
tween the man who lived sparely and abstemiously, and the 
man who ate and drank more than was good for him. 

“Of course it is not my father,” Harry said to himself; 
“he would never drive in an open carriage and wear a dia- 
mond pin and dress in the height of fashion; besides, father 
is a much thinner man, with a keener look in his eyes, and 
yet they might be twin brothers, so closely do they resemble 
one another.” 

The street was so thronged with vehicles that progress 
was necessarily slow, and Harry had plenty of time to take 
stock of the man who so reminded him of Robert Morton. 

It is said by some that eyes have a magnetic influence, 
and that if you look at a man intently enough from behind 
he will at length become conscious of it and will turn his 
head to see. It may be so. 

Harry stared at the man in the carriage until he turned 
his head and their eyes met. It was a swift, searching 
glance on the part of each, but no sign of recognition passed. 

Harry stood against a lamp-post and stared after the 
carriage, and while he did so two gentlemen passed him 
talking loudly. 

“I tell you they are two of the biggest scoundrels in 
London,” one was saying to the other, “and I can prove it.” 

“I wish you would prove it,” the other replied, “it is 
quite time somebody put an end to their game.” 

Harry pressed- forward and strained his ears to catch more, 
but the crowd intervened, and a few minutes later the gentle- 
men were lost to sight. 

At the end of the street, he turned into St. Paul’s church- 


Against tee tide. 


m 

yard, and having nothing else to do he mounted the steps 
and passed through the doors into the Cathedral, and steal- 
ing to an empty chair in the shadow of a pillar he sat down. 

For several minutes he took no notice of anyone, and 
no one noticed him. It was deliciously cool after the glare 
of the streets, and so delightfully restful. The roar of the 
streets came faint and subdued, like the murmur of the sea 
when the tide is low; and the light that stole in through the 
dusty and many-colored windows was sweet and refreshing 
to the tired eyes. 

After awhile, he began to look around him. There were 
hundreds of people scattered here and there, mostly from the 
country. He could tell that by the way they stared about 
them. A few had grown tired with shopping, and had come 
in to rest, and a limited few had come in for silent medita- 
tion and prayer. 

He began to scan the faces at length with interest, but 
there was no one he knew. He had scarcely seen a familiar 
face since he came to London. 

He was just about to go forth into the street again, 
when a whispered name felt upon his ear. 

“Come, Monica, I think you have played country cousin 
long enough, and we have a lot' of shopping to do yet.” 

He leaned forward with a start, and glanced timidly 
round a projection of the huge pillar, and there, not three 
yards from him, sat Monica and Lord Menheriot. 

They, were looking away from him, so that he was able 
to scan their faces unobserved. Nine months had passed 
since they had last met, hut she had not changed in the 
least. She was just as beautiful as ever. 

The blood rushed to his face in a torrent, and his heart 
was throbbing at fever speed. 

“Come, Monica,” the Earl repeated, “you knew we prom- 
ised to meet Rupert at Maples’ not later than six.” 

“Yes, I know,” she whispered wearily; “I wish you and 
Rupert would do the furnishing between you.” 

“But it is for your house, Monica.” 

“Yes, I know,” and she rose and followed the Earl down 
the aisle. 

Harry sat still and stared after them, and long after they 
had disappeared he kept staring in the same direction. 


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He pulled himself together at length, and leaned hack 
in his chair and shut his eyes. “It is only what I might 
have expected/’ he said, “they have returned from their 
honeymoon, and are now busy house furnishing, and already 
he goes one way and she goes another. But 1 knew how it 
would be. Poor Monica! Better she were buried/’ and he 
rose and hurried out into the sunshine. 

A week later Harry sat exploring the mysteries of a sau- 
sage in a small, and not over clean, eating house in Fetter- 
lane. He was in no hurry to reach the end of his explora- 
tions, for he was dead tired as well as hungry, and it was 
pleasant to sit and rest awhile out of the eye of the sun. 
On a form near him lay a week-old newspaper. He picked 
it up and glanced at it carelessly; then with a look of intense 
interest. The name Morton had caught his eye. 

A new company was being floated by Morton and Fletcher 
with a capital of £780,000. Then followed some caustic 
■comments on the nature of the speculation. 

Harry read on till he reached a paragraph that professed 
to deal with the past history of Robert Morton, the great 
company promoter. It had been said that he had been ap- 
prenticed as a lad to a stockbroker in the city, .and that 
his life had been lived in the atmosphere of finance. But 
this writer had reason to believe that the opposite of this 
was the truth. There was, in fact, a well-founded report 
abroad that at one time he had been a country schoolmaster. 
Certain it was, that until the last three years he had never 
been heard of on the London Stock Exchange. Since then 
his career had been more wonderful than any romance ever 
penned. He had the touch of Midas. Riches had rolled 
in upon him. He had floated company after company with 
astounding success. Baronets and earls, and even dukes it 
was said, besieged his office. Titled ladies were ready to 
go on their knees to him. 

“But how long is this going to last?” the writer asked. 
Then followed further criticism of a severe kind, ending 
with a thinly-veiled prophecy that the bubble would burst, 
and at no distant date. 

Harry read the column a second time with growing inter- 
est. Then he hunted up some other papers in the room 
and read them, and strangely enough there was not a single 


AGAINST TEE TIDE. 


181 


paper that did not contain some reference to Morton and 
Fletcher. 

In the street he bought a halfpenny evening paper. He 
could ill afford it, but his curiosity had been aroused, and 
the first name his eye rested upon was that of Robert Morton. 

He returned to his lodgings that night in a strange un- 
rest. He had no doubt now as to who it was he had seen 
in the open carriage in Cheapside. 

“And this is the reward of sin,” he reflected, “the inno- 
cent pay the price, the guilty go free; the honest man is 
sent to jail, the rogue flourishes like a green bay tree. I 
wonder where Providence comes in?” 

“At any rate,” he went on after a long pause, “I shall 
surely be able to discover the whereabouts of this respected 
parent of mine now., Pve been searching for him long 
enough, but in the wrong place. I expected to find him — 
if I ever did find him — in the East-end, and, lo! he is in 
the West — not in Whitechapel, but in Mayfair.” 

A few days later Harry might have been seen toiling 
up the heights of Hampstead. He had discovered Robert 
Morton’s address, and was determined to have another in- 
terview with him. No good might come out of it, but at 
any rate it would gratify his curiosity, and then he was 
pining to see Madge. Next to Monica, he loved Madge bet- 
ter than anyone else in the world. 

It was a long .pull across the Heath from Hampstead sta- 
tion; but the sight of green turf was as halm to his tired 
eyes, the fresh breeze like nectar. On the ridge of the hill 
he paused and a low exclamation of surprise burst from his 
lips. He had not expected such a vision of the country. 

Firdale was not difficult to find, and in a short time the 
yellow gravel of the well-kept drive was crunching under his 
feet. He felt very strange and out of place, nor could lie 
help wondering what kind of reception he would get. He 
looked down almost with a feeling of dismay at his thread- 
bare clothes; but they were the best he had. Yet he looked 
a gentleman notwithstanding. 

A turn in the drive, and the large house came full into 
sight. Harry gave a little gasp. 

“Heavens,” he said, “can it be that he has risen to this?” 

How little we understand the meaning of words. It was 
to this he had fallen. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE POISON WORKS. 



OBERT MORTON recognized Harry in Cheapside, 
in spite of his shabby appearance, and though he 
made no sign, he felt very uncomfortable and re- 
mained during the day in a state of considerable 
unrest. Try as he would, he could not. banish the 
haunting look that was in Harry’s eyes. During the 
last few months he had almost succeeded in exclud- 
ing him from his mind. During the first week or two after 
his release he was always on the lookout for him. He 
felt sure that he would get to know his whereabouts sooner 
or later, and look him up. But as the weeks and months 
passed away, and Harry had made no sign, he concluded 
that he had gone abroad. “And a very proper thing to do/’ 
he reflected, “and I sincerely hope I shall never be troubled 
by him again.” 

Hence the sight of Harry in Cheapside was somewhat 
disconcerting. It showed him, first, that Harry had not 
left the country; second, that his struggle to win back his 
old position had ended in failure; and third, that at any 
moment he might be brought face to face with him. 

This was not a pleasant progpect. He had quite enough 
to worry him without this. He regarded Harry as his enemy. 
It is said that people never forgive those whom they have 
wronged. This was quite true of Robert Morton. Harry 
was a disturber of his peace, therefore his foe. He dreaded 
a meeting with- him far more than with the London harpies 
who every day were swooping down upon him. 

Robert Morton went home to a sumptuous dinner, but 
he did not enjoy it. As a matter of fact, he enjoyed noth- 
ing now. ‘ He looked at Madge’s pale face and sorrowful 
eyes and his heart, smote him. He was sacrificing her as 
he had sacrificed Harry and where the , sacrifice would end 
he did not know. These were only a part of the price to 
be paid for his sin. 




THE POISON WORKS. 


183 


And the trouble of it was, that in sacrificing others he 
was not exempting himself, or at least he was only staving 
off the evil day. He might fling one after another to the 
wolves, until every member of his family was sacrificed, but 
in the end he would have to share the same fate. As time 
passed away, this became with him a settled conviction. 

He fought against the idea for a long time, with des- 
perate energy. It seemed like an admission that his pessi- 
mistic philosophy was false, and that the underlying prin- 
ciples of Christianity were true; but the facts of his own 
experience were too strong for him. He had sacrificed 
Harry; he was sacrificing Madge, but he had escaped no 
pang himself. If he had escaped prison, he had not escaped 
torture, far worse than anything that prison discipline could 
inflict. 

It seemed to him that justice refused any and every 
substitute. The sacrifice of the innocent would not appease. 
He might fling his children upon the altar, but they could 
not atone for him; he was only adding thereby to the burden 
of his guilt, he would have to pay the heavier price later on. 

He would have been glad to believe in an atonement 
wrought out for him by another — -by Harry, for instance; 
or Madge — 'hut he could not. Punishing the innocent some- 
how made no amends; it only made things worse. Wrong 
could not be atoned for by another wrong. Every man had 
to bear his own burden, to reap what he had sown. 

Robert Morton was thinking bitterly, at the very hour 
that Harry was drawing near to the house, that he was 
reaping the harvest of his doing, and a very abundant harvest 
it was. In the eyes of the world he had gained much, and 
the world generally believed that he had gained it by rec- 
ognized business methods. There were a few, of course, 
who knew better, who saw the inwardness of his transactions, 
and who had the power to blackmail him to any extent. 

Outwardly, of course, he was prosperous enough; people 
spoke of him as being almost a~ millionaire, but he knew 
that financially he was walking across a quaking bog. In- 
deed, he did not know where he was, or how long the illu- 
sion might last. 

During the first year of his London life, by what seemed 
a happy stroke of luck, he had won a small fortune, and 


184 


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luck had appeared to attend him ever since. In the first 
flush of his success, he fancied himself a born financier. In 
London men crowded about him, fawned upon him, flat- 
tered him, professed friendship of the highest and most 
abiding kind. He fancied that, in the slang of the time, 
he knew his way about, but he soon discovered that he 
was the merest novice, that in the hands of these London 
men he was but as a child. They got his secrets from him; 
probed all his methods; took his true measure. Then, when 
they realized fully the strength 6f the man with whom they 
had to deal, they turned upon him, and demanded compen- 
sation for their silence, or payment for their help. 

He was not long in discovering that he had allowed him- 
self to drift helplessly into the hands of a band of sharpers. 
Amongst the cleverest of these was Sir George Hardwood. 
He had befriended Sir George in the early days of his busi- 
ness speculations; at least, so he had been taught to be- 
lieve; now, however, the tables were turned; he was in 
the baronet’s hands completely. Sir George knew more 
about him than any other man, and had greater power 
over him; .hence when the baronet demanded the hand of 
Madge, as the condition of his silence, he was forced to 
consent. 

It is true he was greatly flattered at first, at the idea of 
his daughter marrying into the ranks of the aristocracy. In 
a sense also, it was a happy stroke of luck. If Sir George 
became his son-in-law, then, for the sake of Madge, and 
the family name, he would keep quiet. Blackmail would 
be out of the question when Madge was Sir George’s wife. 

So Robert favored his suit, and was anxious that the 
wedding should take place at as early a date as possible. 
The sooner Madge became his wife, the sooner he would 
be out of the baronet’s power. When once the relationship 
was established, he would no longer be in fear of the aris- 
tocratic financier. 

It was Sir George’s carriage that Harry had seen in 
Cheapside. It was Robert Morton’s prospective son-in-law 
who sat by his side. It was not surprising perhaps, that 
the baronet looked so entirely satisfied with himself, that 
his face beamed so pleasantly, and his eyes shone with so 
much mirth. He had played his cards with great skill, 


THE POISON WORKS. 


185 


and had won his hand. It was equally natural that Robert 
Morton should look sad-eyed and depressed. His prosperity 
was entirely in appearance. When men spoke of his great 
haul in this direction, and that, they knew little or nothin ; 
of the leeches that had fastened upon him on every side, 
and were draining the very blood from his veins. As a 
matter of fact, only an infinitesimal portion of those hauls 
went into his own pockets. 

Moreover, he was an inefficient business man, and knew 
so little about bookkeeping and finance generally, that his 
books were in a state of absolute chaos. He was literally liv- 
ing from hand to mouth, was compelled to embark on fresh 
adventures for the purpose of finding money to pay off old 
liabilities. When the day came that he found it impos- 
sible to launch any fresh scheme, then he knew that the 
day of his financial greatness would be at an end. 

The sight of Harry had stirred a thousand memories in 
his brain. What would he not give for the old days of 
quietness and peace. He literally pined at times for a quiet 
corner somewhere away from the noise of the world, where 
he could live undisturbed and be at rest. If he could only 
forget the past, blot out the memory of what he had done, 
and get somewhere where no haunting fear of the future 
could disturb him, he might still be a happy man. But, 
alas! memory would assert itself, and imagination kept pic- 
turing a tragic future. 

Up to the time of his coming to London he had been 
an exceedingly temperate man; wine and spirits he scarcely 
ever tasted. But new society wrought a change in his habits. 
Late dinners became the occasion of much wine-drinking. 
He easily fell into the custom of those with whom he mixed. 
He argued with himself ■ that “it was policy, when in Rome, 
to do as the Romans did. 

So he got into, the habit of having expensive wines with 
his dinner and of taking whisky-and-water before he went to 
bed. He had not much liking for these things when lie 
began, but the taste grew upon him imperceptibly, and 
almost unconsciously, until he found himself after a while 
constantly craving for stimulants. A bottle of wine seemed 
to drown his care. Under the influence of alcohol he for- 
got the worries of the day, ceased to be haunted by. painful 


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memories and by still more painful forebodings. So the 
habit of constantly nipping grew upon him. 

This to a man who had been abstemious all his life was 
damaging to both health and intellect, to say nothing of 
morals. It was little surprising, therefore, that Harry 
scarcely recognized him, so great was the change that three 
years had wrought. 

On the evening that Harry visited him, he retired to 
his own room directly after dinner, and had a bottle of 
wine brought to him. 

Notwithstanding the glorious summer weather, he felt 
miserable and depressed. He was haunted by an uncom- 
fortable foreboding that something was about to happen; 
and he looked to the wine to restore him to a better tone 
and temper of mind. 

Harry pulled at the door bell timidly, and after sending 
in his name was shown at once into the presence of the man 
he had so long called his father. 

Robert Morton rose to receive him; but he did not offer 
to shake hands, he showed no sign of pleasure, he stood 
and waited for his nephew to speak. Harry was more struck 
than ever with the change that had come over him. His 
hands shook painfully; his step seemed unsteady; his eyes 
were lusterless; his cheeks flabby. 

For several moments there was a very awkward and pain- 
ful silence. Robert Morton seemed much the more discon- 
certed of the two. 

“Well, father,” Harry said, at length, “you do not seem 
greatly pleased to see me.” 

Robert Morton leered at him for a moment, then raised 
his head and smiled superciliously. “You are evidently la- 
boring under a delusion in one respect, if not in another,” 
he said; “I wish to say that I am not your father.” 

“Not my father?” Harry questioned in astonishment. 

“No. You are the unfortunate brat of a dead sister 
of mine.” 

“Then why was I not told this sooner?” 

“Because we had respect for your feelings, and had you 
not got into disgrace, you would still have been treated 
as my son.” 

Harry brushed his hand slowly across his eyes, as though 


THE POISON WORKS. 


187 


scarcely able to credit his senses. “Got into disgrace ?” he 
questioned, slowly. “Have you forgotten that I have been 
paying, and am paying still, the penalty of your sin?” 

“You failed to convince an English judge and jury of 
that fact, I think,” Robert said, mockingly, and he poured 
out another glass of wine, and drank it off at a gulp. 

“I failed,” Harry gasped. “You — you — ” But no word 
strong enough came to his assistance. 

Robert Morton smiled, as if enjoying his triumph. 

“I am sorry for you, of course,” he went on, after help- 
ing himself to another glass of wine; “it was, in fact, a 
great blow to us all. But I was bound to proclaim, as you 
can well understand, that you were not my son.” 

“You were ashamed of me, of course?” 

“Naturally,” and Robert Morton looked at him with 
bold, unflinching eyes. 

Harry walked to the nearest chair and sat down. He 
was staggered, bewildered, amazed. The man’s effrontery 
almost took away his breath. 

“It is a relief to me at any rate,” he said at length, “to 
know that I am saved the humiliation of being your son.” 

“Then the relief is mutual,” Robert said, with a smile. 

“And you have no apology, no regret for the cruel wrong 
you have done me?” 

For a moment the elder man’s eyes blazed; then he smiled 
again in a pitying way. “You still cling to that delusion, 
I see.” 

“Delusion?” Harry demanded. “Have you lost all moral 
sense? Have you fallen so low that — that — ” 

“I hope you did not come here to insult me?” the other 
interrupted; “if so this interview had better end at once.” 

“Yes, I will be glad to end it,” Harry answered, rising 
to his feet. “But let me have the name of my father. I 
have borne your name all too long.” 

“That is quite true, quite true,” Robert answered, mildly. 
“But I have all particulars here in my desk. I have ex- 
pected this meeting,” and he went and opened a drawer, and 
began to draw out several papers. “Here are your mother’s 
marriage lines, as she called them, and all other particulars, 
as far as I know them. I should also say that your mother 
left one hundred pounds in cash, which I will return to 


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you. I shall have pleasure also in adding a couple of hun- 
dred to it to help you out. If you will wait a moment I 
will write a check for you.” 

“I presume my keep cost you much more than a hundred 
pounds?” Harry questioned, taking the papers Robert hand- 
ed to him. 

.."Well, yes, rather more,” was the quiet answer. 

"Then I will not take a farthing from you, not a farth- 
ing; I would rather starve. I know how you have come by 
the money you possess, and such money must carry a curse 
with it.” 

"You are highly moral for one who has spent two years 
in jail,” Robert said, mockingly, and his eyes gleamed like 
a beast at bay, 

"If you don’t end your life there you will have much to 
be thankful for,” was the quick reply. 

Robert winced, and his flabby cheeks perceptibly red- 
dened. 

"I do not wish to bandy words with you,” he said at 
length, "and I am sorry you refuse my help. I want to 
prove that, notwithstanding your disgrace, I am anxious to 
do the best I can for you.” 

"This is adding insult to injury,” Harry exclaimed, with 
flashing eyes. "If you were not an old man I would kick 
you. But my turn will come, and perhaps sooner than you 
think,” and walking to the door he pulled it open and passed 
out into the hall. 

Robert touched a bell, and a servant at once appeared and 
bowed Harry out of the house. 


CHAPTER XXY. 


A WELCOME MEETING. 

long summer day was gently fading, and under 
vf the trees the twilight was beginning to creep, when 

Harry emerged into the open air. His cheeks 
were flushed, and through his veins the blood was 
coursing at fever heat. He felt that he would need time to 
recover himself. Pie had been prepared for a great deal; he 
knew that his foster-father was not exactly scrupulous. But 
such an exhibition of utter meanness and baseness he had 
never anticipated. 

That he could have fallen so low in so short a time seemed 
scarcely possible. He was hardly able to realize that one 
wrong step so inevitably leads to a second and a third and a 
fourth; that sin is, in its very essence, a dark and bottomless 
pit. Robert Morton was the most striking object-lesson he 
had yet seen, and he never wanted to see another. 

And yet this man had prospered, not in spite of his 
wrong-doing, but because of it. His ill-gotten gains had in- 
creased and multiplied. The lower he stooped morally the 
higher he had risen socially. With the sacrifice of manhood, 
there had been to all appearances a steady increase of gold. 

Harry hurried away from the door, as though the place, 
were plague-stricken. He would have liked to see Madge and 
Dora, and that meek and faded woman he had so long called 
mother, but he had not the courage to ask for them. He was 
not at all sure that they would care to see him. If the rust 
and taint of gold were upon them as upon the head of the 
house, the chances were that they would have no desire to 
renew the acquaintance, and he had been humiliated enough 
for one day. 

He did not even look back as he hurried away from the 
house. He wanted to lose himself in the darkness and crowd 
until he was able to face the world again with less ruffled 
feelings. 

He was nearing the end of the drive when he saw a slen- 


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der, girlish figure coming slowly toward him. A minute or 
two later they came face to face and their eyes met. They 
both paused suddenly, while a simultaneous exclamation 
burst from their lips. 

“What, Harry?” 

“What, Madge?” 

“Oh, I am so delighted to see you. Where have you 
kept yourself all this long time?” 

“And I am delighted to see you, Madge. I had almost 
despaired of finding you.” 

“And you have been to the house?” 

“Yes, I have been closeted with your father.” 

“And have you not seen mother and Dora?” 

“No, Madge, I have^ seen only your father.” 

“And you are going away without seeing them?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, Harry! Are you ashamed of us?” 

“No, Madge, but I thought you might be ashamed of me.” 

“How can you say so!. You know I have always believed 
in you, and my only regret is that you are - not my real 
brother.” 

“Ah, so your father has told you!” 

“He told Lord Menheriot first, so of course everybody got 
to know.” 

“And you were sorry?” 

“For my own sake yes, but not for yours. Oh, Harry! 
I wish father had remained poor. I think he was a good man 
then and I was proud of him; but now — Oh, Harry, I do not 
know what to think!” 

“He has not improved certainly,” Harry said, bluntly. 

“He is an altogether different man. I hardly recognize 
him sometimes. I have a feeling as though my real father 
had been stolen away and another man put in his place. Oh, 
it is terrible. I cannot tell you what I feel.” 

“And do the others feel the same?” 

“No, I don’t think so. Mother has changed also. She 
likes to feel herself a fine lady. It makes me cry sometimes 
to see her. And as for Dora, poor Dora, I sometimes tremble 
for her.” 

“Why, what is the matter with Dora?” 

“Oh; ^ tell' — nothing definite. ^ 'She seems as happy 


A WELCOME MEETING. 


101 


as a bird all the day long, but she lives solely for pleasure, 
To be at parties, dances, dinners, ‘at homes/ to go to theaters, 
balls and such-like things is all her delight. And if anything 
should happen to father! If this sudden fortune should end 
as suddenly as I sometimes fear it will, I do not know what 
would become of Dora.” 

“She had better be happy while she has the chance,” Har- 
ry answered, gloomily. 

“I do not object to that. But I have a dread of what this 
gay life may lead to. To her- fine dresses and plenty of ex- 
citement are everything, and there is danger in that to a 
young girl.” 

“And you are not fond of fine dresses and plenty of ex- 
citement?” he questioned, with a smile. 

“Oh, of course, I like pretty things: What girl doesn’t? 
But — but — oh, Harry, I was infinitely happier back in Gray- 
stone, when I had to earn my own dress money teaching 
music. I cannot explain things. But the life we are living 
here is false, unnatural, artificial. It is a make-believe and 
a sham.” 

“Why so, Madge? Your father seems to have made plen- 
ty of money?” 

“And the money has been a curse to all of us,” she an- 
swered, vehemently. “Oh, come away from here! Let us 
walk out toward the Heath. I have so much I want to say 
to you.” 

“Perhaps your father will be angry if he discovers you 
have been with me,” he said. 

“I cannot help it if he is. I have got beyond troubling 
about such small matters. As far as I am personally con- 
cerned nothing can matter any more.” 

He turned abruptly and looked at her. “Why, what ails 
you, Madge?” he questioned. 

“Everything, Harry, and yet I cannot die. If I could 
only die I would not mind. But I am young and healthy, 
and I am afraid I shall have to live on for years and years.” 

“And don’t you want to live?” 

“I did once, Harry, but I don’t now. If I were certain 
I should die to-night, I should shout for sheer joy and thank- 
fulness.” 

“But why? What makes you feel like that?” 


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“Because I am doomecLto a living death.” 

“I do not understand you; Madge,” he said, uneasily. 

“Of course you don’t Harry, but I will explain myself 
directly. Let’s get farther away from the house first,” and 
she took his arm as she used to do in the old days, and they 
walked away together in the direction of the Spaniard’s-road. 

The twilight was deepening rapidly, and here and there a 
star — faint and pale — was beginning to show itself in the sky. 
They did not speak again until they got out on the ridge of 
the Heath. Below them, London sweltered as in a furnace, 
and hid itself in a coppery haze, but out here the air was 
sweet and cool, coming from the green and wooded country 
that stretched northward in dim and spectral outline. 

“I love to get out here,” Madge said at length. “I 
almost think I can see Graystone sometimes, when the 
weather is fine and clear.” 

“Have , you left your heart at Graystone, Madge?” he 
asked, with a smile, not thinking of how much his words im- 
plied. 

He felt her hand tremble for a moment on his arm, but it 
was getting too dark for him to see the blush that swept over 
her face. 

“I never knew how much I loved the dear old place until 
it was lost to me,” she answered, after a pause. 

He did not reply, for he loved Graystone also — loved it 
for Monica’s sake; and for a moment the memory of all that 
he had hoped for and lost chilled him like a cold blast from 
the North. 

“Nobody will recognize us here, or overhear us,” Madge 
said at length; “and I know I can trust you, and that I shall 
have your sympathy. Oh, it is good to see and be with you 
once more.” 

“It is good for me,” he said, in an undertone. 

“You do not know Sir George Hardwood?” she questioned 
after a moment of silence. 

He smiled as he answered, “No Madge, such big people 
do not come my way. But who is he when he is at home?” 

“Oh, he is a great city man. Father is mixed up with 
him in some way. Only he is able to dictate terms to father, 
and I think he has helped him a good deal.” 

“What is he like?” 


A WELCOME MEETING. 


193 


“You mean in appearance?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, well, he is short and stout and dark, with full eyes 
and a very bald head, and he always looks on good terms with 
himself.” 

“Then I have seen him.” 

“You have?” 

“Yes. I saw him driving in Cheapside with your father. 
He looks a third Jew and three thirds beast.” 

“Hush, Harry. He is to be my husband.” 

“Heavens, no!” 

“It is the solemn truth. How do you wonder that I want 
to die?” 

“Yes, I do; for you needn’t marry him unless you like.” 

“Oh, don’t say that, please. I held out as long as I could, 
but father says he will be ruined if I don’t.” 

“He will be ruined if you do.” 

“How? What do you know?” and her fingers closed eag- 
erly round his arm. 

“I know nothing about his dealings with this Sir George 
Hardwood. But I know that in the order of heaven the game 
that he has been playing for years is bound to end sooner or 
later in disaster.” 

“What game do you refer to?” 

“The game of money-making. It began when he forged 
Lord Menheriot’s signature.” 

“What?” she gasped, and she dropped his arm as though 
something had stung her. 

“Who did you think forged that check?” he questioned. 
“Did you believe that I did it?” 

“Oh, no, Harry, I was always certain that you were inno- 
cent.” 

“Then who else could have done it?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I have thought that Lord 
Menheriot really put his name to the check, and after his ill- 
ness forgot all about it. Sometimes I have wondered if his 
wife, who is so strange in her head, did it in one of her freaks. 
At other times I have thought of Rupert Grant; he was so 
jealous of you, you know.” 

“I am sorry to undeceive you, Madge, but you may as well 
know the truth now as later on — -better it may be. Your 


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father sacrificed me to screen himself, and now he is going to 
sacrifice you, and he shall not do it if I can prevent it.” 

“It is not to screen himself, Harry. There is mother and 
Dora and Bob, and I must think of them/’ 

“I understand the feeling, Madge. It has possessed me 
up to now. My comfort has been the thought that I was 
saving you/’ 

“Oh, Harry!” 

“It is the truth, Madge. For your father — though I be- 
lieved at that time he was my father also — I did not trouble. 
But for you, Madge, and the others, but for you especially, I 
was willing to suffer. But you see it has been in vain. I 
have not saved you.” 

She clung to his arm again, but did not speak. 

“This theory of the innocent atoning for the guilty may 
be all right as a theory,” he went on, “but it don’t work out; 
and it oughtn’t to. You can never make a white out of two 
blacks, nor a right out of two wrongs. The innocent may 
suffer for the guilty and they have to do it willy-nilly. I 
have suffered in your father’s stead; but is anybody the better 
off? Is he? Am I? Are you? He has got more money, 
but how? If he had got it honestly he would not be afraid 
of this Sir George Hardwood. An honest man is never afraid 
of anybody.” 

“Then you think — ■” 

“I am sure,” he interrupted, “as sure as one can be of any- 
thing in this topsy-turvy world. But look here. I could not 
help suffering in the place of your father. He had so cun- 
ningly managed matters, that no jury in the world would 
have returned any other verdict. In your case, you are left 
with a free choice.” 

“But think if ruin overtakes him and the others.” 

“It will overtake him sooner or later, and you cannot pre- 
vent it. And even if you could, would it be worth the price? 
What you call ruin might be the best thing for all concerned. 
You admitted just now that his money had brought a curse 
with it, and that you were far happier in your poverty at 
Graystone .” 

“I am sure we were all happier. Even father was.” 

# “Then why try to prolong this miserable, false, arti- 
ficial sham of a life that you spoke about just now? Suppose 


A WELCOME MEETING. 


193 


you marry this bald-headed Baronet — what then? Your 
father may get a little longer lease of wrong-doing. Do you 
want that ? Is that worth sacrificing yourself, body and soul, 
for?” 

“But what can I do?” she moaned. 

“Do? Go and marry that young parson at Graystone. 
You love him, and I know he loves you.” 

“Hush, Harry. Who told you that I loved him?” 

“You did, Madge.” 

“Me? How? When?” 

“Just now, when your hand trembled on my arm. Do 
you think I am unable to put two and two together?” 

She bent her eyes on the ground and was silent. 

“Think of the miserable waste of my life, Madge,” he 
went on, after a pause, “and take warning.” 

Her eyes filled in a moment, and she raised them appeal- 
ingly to his. 

“It is easy to talk of sacrifice,” he went on, but what is 
the good if nobody is benefited by it? Besides, in your case, 
it would be giving fresh opportunities for more evil to be 
wrought.” 

“But I have given my word,” she cried out, suddenly. 

“Then withdraw it,” he said. 

“But that would be wrong.” 

He turned upon her with an impatient gesture. “I really 
do not understand you women,” he said. “You strain at a 
gnat and swallow a camel. You jib at breaking a promise 
that never ought to have been made, and yet give yourself 
body and soul to a man you loathe. Monica Stuart has done 
the same thing. I saw her the other day looking as miserable 
as the grave.” 

“Why did she do so?” 

“Because she made a promise and had not the courage to 
go back on it, or else it was a choice of evils. I don’t under- 
stand such things.” 

“And if I marry Sir George you will despise me?” 

“I shall. But that will be nothing to the misery of de- 
spising yourself.” 

“Oh, Harry, you are terribly stern.” 

“No, Madge, but suffering has taught me many things, 
and I would save you if I could.” 


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“If I had you near me always I might be strong/’ she an- 
swered, after a long pause. “But, oh, father makes me obey 
him.” 

“Well, in any case postpone the evil day as long as pos- 
sible,” he said. 

“And will you come and see me again?” 

“Yes, some day, Madge. But I don’t know when.” 

“Are you very busy?” 

“Busy?” and he laughed with apparent light-heartedness. 
“So busy that I don’t know what to do next.” 

They were retracing their steps again toward Firdale. 

“And you are really making your way, Harry? But you 
must have found it very difficult. But you will succeed. 

: Oh, I am sure you will.” 

“Yes, I shall succeed,” he answered, slowly. “Hot after 
the fashion of what the world calls success. But the storm 
toughens the fibre, Madge.” 

“I don’t know; it seems to beat me to the ground and tear 
up every root.” 

“Have courage,” he said; “I can preach it to you and to 
myself also.” 

. “Oh, Harry, it has done me so much good to see you. 

They had reached the gate of Firdale by this time. For a 
moment they stood grasping each other’s hand. 

“I am not hopeful, Harry,” Madge said at length, “but we 
shall meet again.” 

“Yes, Madge, we shall meet again.” So they parted. But 
neither knew nor guessed where or when or under what cir- 
cumstances that meeting would be. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


MONICA’S VISITOR. 

ONICA rose to her feet and waited for her visitor to 
speak. 

“I hope you will pardon me,” the stranger said, 
pausing in the middle of the room and speaking 
very slowly; “you will think it very strange, I know, but I 
did not know whom else to come to, and I am in great trouble 
and — and” — then her voice suddenly faltered, and her eyes 
became suffused with unshed tears. The sight of a fellow- 
mortal in trouble touched Monica’s sympathies in a moment. 

“Pray be seated,” she said, kindly, “and don’t distress 
yourself.” 

“My errand is such a strange one,” the other answered, 
“and when you have heard what I have to say I do not know 
what you will think of me, yet 1 am compelled to come.” 

“Is it anything that concerns me in any way?” Monica 
asked, with a touch of curiosity in her voice. 

“I don’t know: I am only suspicious. Rupert says that 
it is all a mistake. Perhaps I am unduly apprehensive and 
jealous, it may be. You see I have only just recently returned 
from Malta, where my father held command of a detach- 
ment of infantry, and — and I saw the announcement in the 
paper on my return.” 

Monica wheeled round her chair, and drew herself closer 
to her visitor. “I do not think I understand you,” she said; 
“what are you referring to?” 

“Well, it is this way. I was engaged to be married,” she 
answered, with a little blush — “that is more than three years 
ago before we went to Malta. Of course we have kept up a 
correspondence ever since, and everything seemed to have 
gone smoothly, but when we returned a few weeks ago I saw 
the announcement in the paper. Of course it all may be a 
mistake, or there may be some one with the same name. 
Rupert says that it has no reference to him at all ” 

“What Rupert do you refer to?” questioned Monica. 




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“ I mean the gentleman to whom I am engaged,” was the 
reply; “his name is Rupert Grant.” 

“Oh, now I am beginning to understand,” Monica an- 
swered, looking very white and trembling slightly. 

“The newspaper report said that Mr. Kupert Grant was 
going to marry a Miss Monica Stuart, of Graystone Hall. My 
father did not see the announcement in the papers and I have 
not mentioned it to him yet; but Rupert says it is all a mis- 
take, and must refer to some other individual of the same 
name.” 

“But you do not trust your lover’s word?” Monica ques- 
tioned, with a curious smile playing round the -corners of 
her mouth. 

“Oh, yes, I think I trust him, indeed I do 'trust him, only, 
you know, one likes to be certain, and I felt that I could not 
resist the temptation to come to Graystone and get at all the 
facts for myself. You are Miss Monica Stuart?” 

“Yes,” was the answer, “that is my name.” 

“And you are to be married shortly?” 

“I am to be married in a week,” Monica answered, slowly. 

“And you are to marry a Mr. Rupert Grant?” 

“That is so.” 

“Have you a photograph of him that I could see? Of 
course it is not the same Mr. Rupert Grant that I am engaged 
to,” she went on in little gasps, “only you understand a wom- 
an’s curiosity, and I should like to see his portrait if you have 
one by you.” 

“May I ask first,” said Monica, with great deliberation, 
“what is the profession of the Mr. Grant to whom you are 
engaged?” 

“Oh, he is a barrister,” she answered, quickly. 

“And what is his father?” 

“I think he is a clergyman,” was the reply, “but really he 
never said much about his people; he told me that he was not 
well off, and that he would have to earn his own income be- 
fore he could marry.” 

“And that was three years ago?” 

“Oh, yes, we have been engaged over four years now.” 

“And you expected, of course, when you came home that 
he would have made a position for himself.” 

“Well, I had hoped so. At any rate, he has always writ- 


MONICA’S VISITOR,. 


m 

ten very hopefully about the future, and naturally I have 
looked forward to our return.” 

“And is your lover’s home in this neighborhood?” Monica 
questioned curiously. 

“Oh, no, I do not think so, but really I do not know. It 
was somewhere down in the country. He used to speak of 
his people as living right away in the country, fifty miles 
from everywhere, but I paid little heed to the matter, and so 
I really do not know in what part of the country his home is.” 

“Oh, I see,” Monica answered, dryly; “would you mind 
showing me a letter of his? I do not want to read it, but so 
that I may see the handwriting.” 

The stranger blushed and looked confused. 

“One’s love-letters are not for strangers’ eyes,” she an- 
swered; “but I will show you the envelope. Here is the last 
letter I received from him before my return.” 

Monica glanced at the address and the blood rushed in a 
torrent to her face. 

“Miss Dorothy Fielding, 

250 Strada Reale, 

Yaletta, Malta.” 

the address ran, in the clear, bold handwriting of Rupert 
Grant; there could be no mistake about it. She would recog- 
nize his handwriting anywhere. For a moment or two she 
felt as though the room were spinning round upon a pivot, 
she lost sight of her visitor, a mist had come up before her 
eyes that blotted out everything. She quickly recovered her- 
self, however, and looking straight at her companion said, 
“I am very sorry for you indeed, and I am very sorry for my- 
self. We have both been deceived, terribly deceived, but in 
your case the deception has beep more cruel than in mine.” 

“Do you mean,” said her visitor, starting to her feet and 
looking with eager, beseeching eyes, “that the man you are 
engaged to is my affianced husband?” 

Monica did not reply, but she rose at once, walked across 
to the piano and took a photograph from it which she 
brought back and handed to her visitor. 

“That,” she said, “is the portrait of the man I was to 
marry next week.” 

The other glanced at it for a moment and then sank back 
into the chair from which she had risen. 


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“It seems that we have both become engaged to the same 
man/' Monica said hardly and bitterly, “but you have the 
prior claim if you care to enforce it.” Then the frown upon 
her face grew into a smile; it seemed so utterly absurd that 
two young women should be claiming the same man. 

Miss Fielding, however, was in a very different humor. 
Indeed, the emotions of the two girls were totally different. 
Monica felt angry and indignant; Dorothy, on the contrary, 
appeared crushed and broken-hearted. She had given her 
heart to Rupert Grant when she was only in her teens, and 
had loved him with very sincere and passionate devotion; she 
had cherished his memory during all the time that she had 
been in Malta. Absence had only made her heart grow fond- 
er. She had weaved a beautiful romance about his name, 
and had enveloped him with a halo created by her own love 
and fancy; and now to return and find that while he had been 
writing letters of love to her he had proposed to another — 
that actually the day of the marriage had been fixed, while 
only a few days previously in her own home in London he had 
protested undying affection for her, and declared that the an- 
nouncement in the newspapers was altogether a mistake, or 
that it referred to some other individual. To have her lover 
thus exposed as a cruel and heartless deceiver was a shock 
that for a moment took away all her strength and seemed to 
crush her to the earth. 

Monica was quick to appreciate the situation, and her 
heart went out in sympathy to the stranger in a moment. 
Her own position, painful and humiliating as it was, was 
nothing in comparison with that of the other. She knew, of 
course, that when this comedy became public property, her 
position would be a very unpleasant one, but the position of 
Dorothy Fielding was a hundred times more trying. Monica 
had no heart trouble. There had been no outrage upon, her 
affections. She had never cared for Rupert except as a 
friend; she had promised to marry him merely as a con- 
venient family arrangement, and as an escape from a some- 
what unpleasant and difficult position. 

But in the case of Dorothy, it was very evident that the 
girl had given him her whole heart; that she had dreamed of 
him during all the time of her absence, and that she had been 
building upon a happy marriage on her return. Hence she 


MONICA’S VISITOR. 


201 


not only suffered from a sense of humiliation, but from a bit- 
ter sense of loss. 

For a while she seemed too utterly crushed to speak an- 
other word, and as Monica looked at her, she resolved that 
she would put aside her own humiliation and play the part of 
comforter. 

“I am very sorry for you,” she began again, “very sorry.” 

“Oh, don’t,” the other answered, with a sudden blaze in 
her eyes, “please don’t. It comes with an ill grace to say you 
are sorry for me when in my absence you have stolen away 
my lover.” 

For a moment Monica flushed and bit her lip, but she was 
resolved not to be angry; she could, in a measure, understand 
the feelings of the other girl. 

“I can assure you,” she said, “that I had no desire to steal 
him away; had I known of his engagement to you I should 
not have listened to him for a moment. As it is I will resign 
him to you at once, and if you can win him back again do so 
by all means. Be assured I shall never marry him.” 

“But your wedding is fixed,” the other answered, clench- 
ing her hands tightly. 

“That makes no difference,” was the reply, “I promised 
him under a misapprehension.” 

“But you love him; of course — love him as I do,” the 
other replied. 

“Do you love him very much?” Monica questioned, with 
a pathetic smile. 

“I have loved him with all my heart until now,” was the 
reply. 

“And perhaps he loves you,” Monica said; “I am sure he 
has never loved me. He was going to marry me for my money, 
for he is poor, and I was going to marry him — well, because 
my guardian wished it, and because I wanted to escape from 
an uncomfortable position.” 

“And do you mean to say that you have never really loved 
him?” Dorothy questioned. 

“I have liked him of course. He has been very kind to 
me; he is very handsome also, and a man that most girls 
would admire, but as for loving him — well, in the sense you 
mean, no. I have never loved him; I shall never love any 
one.” 


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“But your not loving him cannot make my case any bet- 
ter,” was the reply. “Oh, 1 trusted him so much; I had such 
confidence in his word; and now to be deceived seems to take 
everything away. It makes all the difference in the 
world. I feel as though I hated him, as though I could 
kill him.” 

“He has certainly been very cruel,” Monica answered; 
“and yet perhaps there. is something to be said in his favor. 
You see, he has expensive tastes and has grown up with the 
idea that some day he will come into a large fortune. He 
wanted money, and had none of his own, and the temptation 
to marry me was therefore very great, don’t you see? I pre- 
sume that you are not rich?” 

“Ho, unfortunately, we are only poor; we have to live 
upon my father’s pay, that is all.” 

“And he knew that, of course.” 

“Oh, yes, he knew all about us.” 

“Well you must put yourself in his place, and think how 
he was tempted. Try to put the best construction upon his 
conduct you can.” 

“It is very kind of you,” was the tearful reply, “but when 
one’s faith has been shaken it cannot be restored again in a 
moment.” 

“Yes that is true,” Monica answered, “and for myself I 
know I shall never be able to trust him again, but when I 
have never cared for him as you have done.” 

“But what can I do?” the other wailed, wiping her eyes. 

“I think the best thing you can do just now is to stay 
where you are. I am expecting Rupert here in a few minutes. 
He will be surprised to see you, no doubt, but we will see him 
together and hear what he has to say.” 

“Oh, no,” was the reply, “I don’t want to see him now. 
I will go straight back home and try to forget him.” 

“No, you must not,” Monica said, firmly; “now that you 
are here the whole question had better be sifted to the bottom. 
I am prepared to meet him by your side. We will stand be- 
fore him together, we will hear from his own lips what he 
has to say.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” the other replied, tremblingly, “that 
would be too terrible an ordeal just now. I want time to re- 
cover myself and think.” 


MONICA'S VISITOR. 


203 


“There is no time like the present/’ Monica answered, 
dryly; “always strike while the iron is hot, that is my motto.” 

“But what good would come of our seeing him together?” 
was the timid reply. “He would only be very angry and in- 
dignant, and might say rude things and do something very 
desperate.” 

“Let him say rude things if he likes, or do desperate 
things if he is so disposed. Something is due to us surely, and 
we have a right to see him together and to hear what explana- 
tion he has to offer.” 

“Oh, you are strong,” the other replied, shrinkingly, “and 
your heart is not broken as mine is.” 

“Your heart can only break at the worst,” Monica said, 
“and if your heart is broken the worst has happened.” 

“But he may accuse me of spying upon him and all that 
kind of thing.” 

“And has not the result justified your action?” said Mon- 
ica. “You came here to inquire, it is true, hut there were 
reasons why you should do so, and, unfortunately, all your 
worst fears have been realized.” 

“That is so, indeed,” the other replied, applying her hand- 
kerchief to her eyes, “but please let me go back now; I do 
not want to stay any longer.” 

“But you must stay,” Monica said, “and besides there is 
no escape for you, for I see Rupert just coming up to the 
door.” 

“Then let me hide somewhere,” was the pleading answer; 
“I really cannot face him just now.” 

Monica glanced at her visitor suspiciously. “Has she been 
telling me the truth?” was the question that rushed through 
her mind, “or has she come here to make mischief?” 

Her mind was now fully made up. She would probe this 
matter to the bottom. Perhaps she had been too hasty in 
judging Rupert. Perhaps this young woman was merely an 
adventuress. She had heard of such cases. How did she 
know that she was what she represented herself to be. She 
had given no evidence hut her own hare word, and the ad- 
dress of a lady in Malta in Rupert’s handwriting. This might 
not he Dorothy Fielding at all. • The whole story might he 
trumped up merely for the purpose of making mischief or, 
perhaps, of extorting blackmail. 


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"No, I will have no hiding,” Monica said, sternly; "it is as 
much due to myself as to you that this matter should be 
cleared up.” 

"But I cannot see him now,” the stranger pleaded. 

"But you must and shall,” was the reply. "You have 
come here with very definite and serious charges against the 
man I had promised to marry. But you will please under- 
stand I have only your bare word for them. Do you not see 
the position you have placed me in?” 

The other shrank back in her chair with a sudden gasp 
that was almost a cry. 

"Do you doubt my word?” she asked, with dilating eyes. 

."For the moment I will doubt nothing and believe noth- 
ing,” was the answer; "I have listened to your story; it is only 
fair I should hear what Rupert has to say in reply.” 

For one or two seconds the two women looked without 
flinching into each other's eyes; then the door-bell rang clear- 
ly through the house. 

"That is Rupert,” Monica said, in firm and decided tones; 
"now we will get to the bottom of this.” 

The stranger made no reply, but her breath came in quick, 
short gasps. Her hands were clasped tightly and nervously. 
She might be preparing herself for execution. 

Monica watched her steadily. She hardly knew whether 
to believe her or not. Her manner and her appearance were 
clearly in her favor; she did not look like an adventuress. 

Monica's face was very pale, and her upper lip seemed to 
be drawn tightly across her teeth; her heart was beating at 
fever heat. She felt as though she had reached the supreme 
crisis of her life. The truth or falsehood of this young 
woman's story meant everything to her. It opened up such 
an array of possibilities that she felt bewildered. 

A few moments later a knock came to the door, and the 
servant announced Mr. Rupert Grant. 

"Will you ask him to come in?” Monica said in a voice 
that she scarcely recognized as her own. 

The next moment the door was pushed open, and Rupert, 
bland and smiling, came into the room. 


CHPATER XXVII. 


FACE TO FACE, 

i 

ONICA’S visitor was deep in an easy chair with her 
back toward the door, so that when Rupert ad- 
vanced to greet his affianced wife he was unaware 
that there was any one else in the room. 

“Monica, my darling, you look pale to-day,” he said in his 
most devoted manner. 

At the sound of these words the stranger leaped from 
her chair as though she had been shot, and with flashing eyes 
stood up before him. 

Rupert stepped back with a muttered exclamation, and 
for a moment his eyes looked as if they would start out of his 
head. 

“Dorothy,” he gasped, at length, “Dorothy, what — what is 
the meaning of this?” 

“That is what I want to know,” she said, proudly. 

The timid, shrinking girl had vanished, and in her place 
was a strong, resolute woman. The sound of her lover’s 
voice calling another woman darling stung h6r to sudden 
energy, and called into play the latent soldier that slumbered 
in her blood. 

Rupert took another step back and seemed to shrink into 
himself before her blazing eyes. His slow brain could invent 
no excuse, could frame no explanation. He had been caught 
so completely off his guard that he was absolutely helpless. 

“So the newspaper report is true after all,” she said, “not- 
withstanding all your protestations to the contrary?” 

But he made no answer. He dropped his eyes to the 
ground and stood staring at the carpet. 

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” she questioned, 
indignantly. 

He raised his eyes with a sudden flash of energy. “You 
know all there is to be known,” he said. 

“And you have no excuse to make, no explanation to 
offer?” she questioned. 



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“What’s the use?” he answered, defiantly. “You've caught 
me on the hop, and you’re welcome to the triumph.” 

For a moment or two there was silence. Monica stood 
some distance away, leaning her elbow on the piano. She 
now interposed for the first time. 

“What do you mean by triumph, Rupert?” she asked, with 
a little shake in her voice. 

“I mean what I say,” he answered doggedly. 

“I do not see, much triumph in a woman discovering that 
her lover has played her false,” was the answer. 

“I’ve played nobody false but myself,” he replied, sullenly. 
“I’ve been a fool, a — fool,” and he retreated farther toward 
the door. 

“Then you admit that you promised marriage to this 
young lady?” 

“I admit nothing, and I deny nothing;” he answered in 
the same dogged tone. 

“Oh, Rupert,” Dorothy cried, reproachfully. 

Monica turned toward her, then walked across the room 
and took her hand. 

“I ask your pardon for doubting you just now. Now I 
will leave you with him. Good-bye,” and without looking 
at Rupert she walked 'out of the room. 

What passed between Rupert and Dorothy will, in all 
probability, never be told. All that is known to a certainty 
is that half an hour later, they walked away from the house 
together, that he accompanied her to the railway station and 
saw her into the train, after which he returned to the vicar- 
age. 

Monica, from the window of her room upstairs, saw them 
walking down the drive together, and when they had turned 
the corner, and vanished from sight, she threw herself into 
a low basket chair and heaved a sigh — a sigh that might have 
been of relief or of pain or a mixture of both. 

“So ends another chapter of my life,” she said to herself. 
“I wonder what the next will be?” 

After a while she tried to analyze her emotions, but she 
was not very successful in the attempt. Her feelings were so 
completely mixed that she was unable to sort them out and 
label them. She was happy and angry at the same time, 
thankful and chagrined, relieved and humiliated. 


FACE TO FACE. 


207 


It was a relief not to have to marry Rupert, and yet not 
getting married would mean remaining at Graystone, 
and the life of Graystone was becoming intolerable, and 
indeed just then life seemed intolerable, from every point 
of view. 

From a worldly point of view she had everything — wealth, 
youth, good looks, a beautiful home, unbounded freedom, 
and yet it seemed to her as though she had nothing. Life 
was without aim or purpose or ambition. Of the weary round 
of what society is pleased to call pleasure she knew little or 
nothing, and she had no desire to know. Life for her did 
not lie in that direction. For years she had been yearning 
for something and she knew not what. Her guardian had 
talked to her about having an aim in life, and she had fancied 
in a vague, indifferent way that in marrying Rupert she 
would realize this. 

How she was adrift again. Even the pleasurable excite- 
ment of ordering dresses and receiving presents, and looking 
forward to a jaunt on the Continent, had come to a sudden 
end, and for the next month she would be the object of a vul- 
gar and gaping curiosity. 

Ho, she was not as elated as she thought she ought to 
be. It was not pleasant to have her faith in Rupert Grant 
so suddenly and ruthlessly destroyed. It was not pleasant 
to have to look forward to the dreary round of doing nothing 
such as had marked the past. It was not pleasant to con- 
template dwelling in the same neighborhood with a man she 
would dread to meet. 

In truth, nothing was pleasant, and she heartily wished 
that she had never been born. Then her thoughts turned 
back to the old days when she and Harry Morton were boy 
and girl together. She was happy enough then, and the 
future was always a pleasant theme to dream about. How 
the reality had falsified all their dreams! Poor Harry was 
an outcast, while she, notwithstanding her pleasant surround- 
ings, was perhaps as miserable as he. 

She rose to her feet at length and went in search of her 
guardian. She found him busy in the library, busy with some 
letters that had just come in. 

“Can you spare me a little of your time?” she asked, 
pushing open the door. 


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“Something important ?” he questioned with a grave 
smile. 

“Yes, very important.” 

He looked at her scrutinizingly. He saw that her face 
was very grave, and that her eyes had a look of pain in 
them. 

“Sit down my child,” he said, kindly; “you look tired.” 

“I am tired,” she said, “and worse.” 

“Ah, you have not heard any bad news, I hope?” 

“It may be bad news to you,” she said; “the marriage is 
not to take place.” 

He wheeled suddenly round in his chair and stared at her. 

“You are surely joking?” he said. 

“I am in solemn earnest,” was the reply. 

“Oh, that is all nonsense,” he said, gravely. “You cannot 
back out of this thing as though it was a matter of no conse- 
quence. Why, you are all but married.” 

“It is not a question of my backing out,” she answered. 
“If there is any blame in the matter it does not lie with me.” 

“With whom then?” 

“With Rupert.” 

“Do you mean to say he does not want to marry you?” 

“It looks like it,” she answered. 

“But why?” 

“Because he has found another woman he likes better.” 

“Oh, this is fooling,” said the Earl, impatiently, “and very 
poor fooling at that.” 

“I can assure you it is nothing of the kind,” she answered, 
firmly; “Rupert and I have parted company this afternoon 
for ever.” 

“Where is Rupert?” 

“I presume by this time he is at the vicarage.” 

“And you mean to tell me that he is a consenting party 
to what will be nothing less than a public scandal? Every- 
body knows that the house has been taken and furnished 
and every preparation made for the wedding.” 

“If you doubt my word,” she replied, stiffly, “ask Rupert.” 

“I will send for him this very minute,” and he rose and 
rang the bell, while Monica opened the door and passed out 
of the room. 

Half an hour later, Rupert came shamefacedly into the 


FACE TO FACE. 


209 


Earl’s presence and took the chair lately occupied by Monica. 
He quite expected that Monica had told the Earl the entire 
story, and was prepared for a violent onslaught. 

The Earl was writing when he came into the room and 
scarcely took any notice of him, hut he laid down his pen 
at length and wheeled himself round in his chair. 

. “Monica tells me,” he said with forced calmness, “that you 
have broken off the engagement, and that the wedding is not 
to take place. Is that so?” 

“Did she say that I had broken off the engagement?” he 
questioned. 

“To the best of my belief yes. She said that you had 
seen another woman that you liked better.” 

“Did she say anything else?” 

“No, I think not. She intimated that if I wanted particu- 
lars I could get them from you.” 

“And she gave you no particulars whatever?” 

“No, sir she gave me none. I wish you would answer 
my questions instead of asking others.” 

“It’s very good of Monica not to expose me,” he reflected; 
then he answered aloud, “Pardon me, I was only anxious to 
know how little or how much she had told you.” 

“Then perhaps now you will be able to give me a direct 
answer to a direct question?” 

“I hope so, sir.” 

“Is it true, that you have broken off the engagement ?” 

“Yes, but it is quite mutual.” 

“You are both parties to it?” 

“Yes. We have discovered that we should never get on 
together.” 

“But have you discovered how you will get on without 
her?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean that Monica has wealth and you have nothing.” 

“But money is not everything, sir.” 

“Dear me, how wonderfully philosophic you have grown 
in a moment. But perhaps the other young lady has money.” 

“Monica alluded to an early fancy of mine. She has no 
money at all.” 

“Oh, I see,” and then a silence fell. The Earl was very 
angry, but he kept himself well in hand. 


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“Look here, Eupert,” he said at length, “this is a more 
serious matter for yourself than you are apt to think, and I 
would advise you to seek an interview with Monica and make 
it up again as soon as possible.” 

“I fear I cannot do that,” was the reply. 

“And why not?” 

“Because we understand each other too thoroughly.” 

“Oh, that is all fudge. But hear what I have to say first. 
I have been wanting an opportunity to tell you for some 
weeks past, and you had better prepare yourself for a very 
unpleasant bit of news.” 

Eupert glanced up with a startled expression in his eyes. 
Was it true that troubles never come singly? Yet in his 
most despairing moments he never dreamed of such a revela- 
tion as that to which he listened. 

The Earl told his story in much the same words as he had 
told it to Monica several weeks previously. 

Eupert was too absolutely astonished to interrupt him. 
He listened like a man in a dream. It seemed as if the 
floor were sinking away from under him and he was dropping 
into empty space. 

When the Earl had finished there fell a long and painful 
silence. Eupert’s face was ashen, and ev6ry now and then he 
moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. 

“And you say you made the discovery three years ago 
that your son was alive?” Eupert questioned, bringing out the 
words in gasps. 

“It is nearly three years ago,” the Earl answered. 

“Then why did you not acknowledge him at once?” 

“Because he was in prison at the time,” and the Earl’s 
face flushed. 

“In prison?” 

“That is so. Consequently after much mental agony 
I decided never to acknowledge him, but I have changed my 
mind.” 

“But why? Surely a jail-bird is not fit to be heir to 
Graystone.” 

The Earl winced, and an angry flush swept over his face. 

“I have every reason to believe,” he said, “that he was 
wrongly convicted, I have been hunting up evidence ever 
since,” 


FACE TO FACE. 


m 

“And may I ask of what this, son of yours was con- 
victed,” Rupert asked, bitingly. 

“Forgery,” was the brief and abrupt reply. 

“Forgery? Why — why — why — ” 

“Exactly,” said the Earl dryly. “You interested your- 
self a good deal in the matter at the time, but you did not 
know that Harry Morton was my son.” 

“I am sorry for you,” he said at length; “to have such 
a son must be a bitter grief to you.” 

“No, I am proud of him,” the Earl said with a smile. 
“He nobly sacrificed himself to save another.” 

“I’m glad you think so.” 

“Em sure of it, and I shall prove it yet.” 

“Then I wonder you do not have him at home.” 

“Alas, I have not been able to discover him. He was 
released from prison a year ago, since when he seems to 
have completely vanished.” 

“Very wise of him I should say,” Rupert remarked, sar- 
castically, “and suppose he never shows himself again?” 

“In that case it will be as though I had no son.” 

Rupert’s brow cleared considerably. 

“It will be to my father’s and my advantage to see that 
this precious young man never does turn up again,” he re- 
flected. But he was careful to keep his thoughts to himself, 
and soon after he took his departure. 

That night he lay awake till long after the light of a 
new day stole into the bedroom. He had long foreseen that 
he might miss Monica’s fortune, and in some measure was 
prepared for the contingency, but the possibility — almost 
the certainty — of losing Graystone completely overwhelmed 
him. 

“But it must, not be,” he kept repeating to himself over 
and over again, “and, by heaven, it shall not be. No it 
shall not be,” he added. After which he opened his heart 
and gave free admission to the devil. 

Evil suggestions grow rapidly. Evil deeds spring from 
evil thoughts. Once give place to the devil, and you are 
no longer your own master. 

Before Rupert fell asleep a desperate resolve had shaped 
itself in his mind, and when he awoke it was still there. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


A LOSING BATTLE. 



OR several days Rupert Grant fought a losing battle. 
He was not without conscience, and now and then 
when he joined his father and mother at family 
prayer he would resolve to put away the evil sug- 
gestions that had been lodged in his mind, and fight the 
world with clean hands. But the evil suggestions came 
back again like birds to their nests. 

A stronger man, or a man who had discovered the true 
source of all moral strength, would have conquered. But 
Rupert Grant made no profession of religion; he rather 
prided himself on being a man of the world. Religion was 
for clergymen and women. He considered himself superior 
to such weakness. 

Moreover, as the days passed away, the gravity of his 
position made itself more and more manifest. He said noth- 
ing to his father of the Earl’s communication. He treated 
it as strictly confidential. He had a reason for that. If 
the Earl chose to take his father into his confidence, that 
of course was his concern. For several reasons, how- 
ever, he hoped the Earl would say nothing further about 
the matter at present. 

The first task Rupert had to undertake was to inform 
his father that he and Monica had disagreed very seriously, 
and that the wedding had been indefinitely postponed; that 
done he began to make preparations for his departure to 
London. 

The rector was greatly perturbed. He had built so much 
on Rupert’s wedding. Indeed, Rupert had promised him 
repayment with interest of all he had advanced during the 
past five years. How he might whistle for his money, and 
all the little plans and schemes that he had been cherishing 
during the past few weeks were scattered to the winds; and 
worse than all Rupert wanted a further advance of money. 

“It is of no use my remaining any longer at Graystone,” 


A LOSING BATTLE. 


213 


Rupert said; “I may as well get back to London and see if 
I cannot earn something.” 

“It’s a great blow to me,” his father replied. 

“And to me also/’ was the answer; “I’ve wasted an awful 
lot of time and all to no purpose.” 

“But why were you such a fool as to disagree with her?” 

“You should rather ask how I have managed to keep 
the peace with her as I have done. A woman is worse to 
handle than an eel; when you think you have got her fast 
you find she has slipped through your fingers.” 

“Not all, Rupert ” 

.“Not all; some are like leeches — you can shed your skin 
sooner than you can get rid of them.” 

“You speak as though you had had a large experience, 
but you have not answered my question yet.” 

“Some questions do not admit of an answer, and yours 
is one of them.” 

“It was a chance in a lifetime,” the rector grumbled. 

“I know it, and I have missed it, so what’s the use of 
worrying?” 

“Because I am hard up, and you are always demanding 
money.” 

“Have patience. Rome was not built in a day. I’ll pay 
you back in good time.” 

“You said that when first you went to London.” 

“I know it. I was a k fool not to stay there, but the chance 
of marrying a fortune proved too tempting; besides, you 
egged me on and gave me no peace.” 

“Don’t be rude, Rupert.” 

“It’s only the sober truth. Besides, you should remem- 
ber that this business is harder for me than it is for you. 
It’s no light matter for a man of my age to be on the 
stream.” 

“And the Earl looks better and stronger than ever.” 

“Ay, he’ll outlive you, and see me with grey hairs if not 
a bald head. So there’s no help for it. I must go to Lon- 
don and work.” 

“I hope you will work. Your great sin hitherto has been 
idleness.” 

“Think so, dad? Well, we’ll not discuss the matter. 
Everything, you know, depends on the point of view.” 


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“Don't be flippant, Rupert. You are old enough now 
to look at life seriously.” 

“I never looked at it in any other way. I was born seri- 
ous. Good heavens, there’s been no chance for comedy in 
my case.” 

So within a week Rupert was back once more in Lon- 
don intent on two things. First, to negotiate a loan to meet 
his present wants, and second to arrange matters in such 
a way as to make gdod his future. 

It was on this second point that he fought his battle 
and lost. 

To make good his future one thing was absolutely nec- 
essary. Lord Menheriot must never find his son and heir, 
and to secure that end measures would have to be adopted 
that would not bear the light of day. 

So far fortune was in his favor. The Lari’s efforts hith- 
erto to find Harry had been abortive. Nor was that all. 
By a stroke of good Tuck he believed that he knew where 
he could put his finger on the missing man. 

If in this surmise he was correct, should he devise means 
for the purpose of removing him forever from the scene of 
his earthly activities? It could be done he knew. Such 
things were being done constantly and never found out. 
Harry Morton was an unknown man, without a friend in 
London, living under a false name. If he were missed to- 
morrow nobody would trouble about it, no one would 
care. There would be one less in the great army of 
failures, one less for the state to care for, one mouth less to 
feed. 

Should he do it, and so look forward with confidence 
to being Lord of Graystone? Graystone was a great deal 
to lose, but so was character and a good conscience. 

There was bound to be a sacrifice somewhere. Either 
he must sacrifice Graystone, or he must remove Harry out 
of the way. To be Earl Menheriot was a great thing — to 
have a seat in the House of Lords, to be lifted above pecun- 
iary anxiety— all that amounted to a great deal, but the 
price he would have to pay was a very heavy one. Was 
he prepared to pay it? 

At first he said no, and said it with considerable em- 
phasis, but he grew very much less emphatic as time passed 


A LOSING BATTLE. 


215 


on. He was in dire straits. His troubles had come upon 
him like an avalanche. He had lost everything at one swoop. 

To be told that he was not the heir to Graystone was 
bad enough, and sufficient to make a man consider any 
desperate remedy that might present itself; but coming upon 
his rejection by Monica, with the consequent loss of her 
fortune, was almost enough to turn his brain. 

Nevertheless, he fought a half-hearted battle for several 
days. His life had not been altogether above reproach, 
though he flattered himself that he was not a whit worse 
than other young men of the same age and station. Still 
Society and the world at large drew a very clear distinction 
between vice and crime. The former is expected in young 
men — so he believed. At any rate it was tolerated and con- 
doned. Judicious mammas closed their eyes and asked no 
questions. "Young men will be young men,” they said, "and 
after they have sown their wild oats they will settle down.” 
The only thing Society will not tolerate under this head 
is being found out. Be as vicious as you like, so long as 
it does not get into the law courts and become a public scan- 
dal. Society will close one eye or both, just as occasion 
may demand, and be judiciously silent. 

But crime is in a very different category. The world 
is very much less concerned about moral law than about 
civil law. 

Bupert’s vices had never lain a heavy weight upon his 
conscience. If Society could condone them, he could con- 
done them also. But he had never yet descended to crime, 
and when the suggestion first came to him to do so he almost 
gasped. 

Crime was so low, so vulgar, so detested of all good so- 
ciety that the mere contemplation of it sent a cold shiver 
down his back. But what other escape was there for him? 
If he could not get Harry Morton out of the way, he was 
socially a lost man. He knew very well that he would never 
be able to earn his own living. He hated work of every 
kind. He had scraped through his examinations and got 
called to the bar as a mere form. He never had the remot- 
est intention of making his living at it. He was born a 
gentleman — on that fact he prided himself. Nature had in- 
tended him to be a full-bodied, ease-loving drone, not a 


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working bee. Only common people worked, and there was 
nothing common about him. 

But at present the fates were all against him. Now he 
cursed Monica for delaying the wedding so long, and now he 
cursed Dorothy Fielding for appearing at the wrong mo- 
ment, and now he cursed himself for bungling the whole 
business. 

But the loss of Monica and her fortune were as nothing 
compared to the loss of Graystone. That calamity overshad- 
owed everything else. That the Earl meant to acknowledge 
Harry he had not the least doubt. He had taken a long 
time to make up his mind, he had weighed well the con- 
sequences, and unless Harry was disposed of in some way 
his chance of ever being Earl of Menheriot was practically 
nil. 

So day by day, as his position grew more and more des- 
perate, the idea of removing Harry Morton out of the way 
lost its first horror, and he began to contemplate it seri- 
ously and with comparatively few twinges of conscience. 

He lost no time on reaching London in instituting in- 
quires, and he soon found that his surmise had been cor- 
rect. A month or two previously, in passing a large build- 
ing that was in course of erection, he had seen a man car- 
rying a hod who was the very image of Harry Morton. He 
had thought little about the matter at the time. It might 
be Harry Morton or it might not. It was not a matter that 
concerned him. He never supposed for a moment that Harry 
would ever cross his path 'again. 

Now everything was changed. A single day had wrought 
a revolution. The very man whom he had supposed w r as 
removed for ever out of the circle of his life was the one 
man who stood between him and fortune and honor and 
social position. 

Day after day he went and stood over against the huge 
building that was being erected, and saw Harry climbing 
the ladders with a hod upon his shoulder. He felt sure it 
was he, and he looked a gentleman in spite of dust and 
grime and fustian clothes. 

But to make assurance doubly sure he followed him to 
his lodgings, saw him emerge an hour later in holiday at- 
tire, tracked him to the British Museum, saw him poring 


A LOSING BATTLE. 


217 


over a book, watched the play of his features until he had 
not the least shadow of a doubt that this was the very man 
that Lord Menheriot had been in search of for months past 
— the man that stood between him and an earldom. 

“I’ve tracked my game, at any rate / 7 he muttered to him- 
self maliciously. “My next business will be to pot him; 
and the sooner the better, for if the Earl gets wind of him 
I'm lost . 77 

But discovering Harry’s whereabouts brought Rupert only 
be the beginnig of his self-appointed task. What was 
to be the next step? He still had momentary twinges 
of conscience. He shrank from crime, especially such a 
crime as murder. Not that he would do the actual deed 
even if Harry were put out of existence; but he knew 
if he paid someone else to do it he would he just as 
guilty. 

For awhile he considered the question of getting Harry 
out of the country. But so many obstacles presented them- 
selves that he had to dismiss the idea. Had he unlimited 
cash at his disposal something might be done in that direc- 
tion. But a man of Harry’s type was not likely to leave 
the country unless someone could show him that it would 
be to his advantage to do so. 

Moreover, even if he could be got out of the country, 
the end Rupert had in view would not be secured. The 
world was only small, and a man might be as easily found 
in Australia or Africa as in London, perhaps more so. 

“No, no,” he said to himself, “if I’m ever to he Earl 
Menheriot he will have to be put out of existence by some 
process or other.” 

But what the process was to he he could not determine. 
In olden time it might be easy enough to get a man kid- 
naped and made away with. But telegraphs and telephones 
and railways and electric light, and all the machinery that 
the law had brought into existence, had made the task one. 
of infinite difficulty, if not an absolute impossibility. 

He grew desperate as he contemplated the formidable 
nature of his task, and at times was half disposed to banish 
the subject from his mind and take his chance — face the 
inevitable and make an honest effort to earn his own living. 

Then the thought of Harry Morton — the man he hated 


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of all men! being Lord of Graystone would sting him to 
madness. 

How cruel fate had been — how the tables had been turned 
upon him! How he had sneered at Harry Morton in the 
old days as being a low-born clown — how he had hunted 
him down when the forged check had been discovered; how 
he had resented his intimacy with Monica and triumphed in 
his downfall! 

How, though he did not know it, Harry had all the cards 
in his own hand; without putting forth any effort fortune 
and position were tumbling into his lap. 

“Oh, I hate him,” Rupert would hiss with clenched hands 
and a baleful light in his eyes. “I hate him. I have always 
hated him, and I shall never be happy until he is safe un- 
der the turf.” 

It is said that the devil is always considerate of the 
man who is bent on mischief, and sends a legion of his angels 
to help him. Perhaps for this reason Rupert Grant, who 
was by no means clever, hit upon a plan at length for the 
safe removal of Harry Morton. 

He had noticed, while watching Harry at his work, that 
one of his fellow hod-bearers was a low-browed, small-eyed 
scoundrel of the most villainous type, a regular jail bird in 
appearance, a man who, unless his looks belied him, would 
stop at nothing. 

“That is the man for me,” Rupert reflected. “That man 
will sell his soul — if he has a soul, which isn’t at all likely — 
for a pot of beer. He has cunning, too, and determination. 
I must get hold of him, if possible, and sound him as to his 
capabilities.” 

Rupert watched his opportunity for several days. It 
came at length. The low-browed ruffian turned back one 
evening for something he had left behind. Rupert waited’ 
until he appeared again outside the wooden fence. 

There was nobody about. All the other men, Harry 
among them, had hurried away in the direction of their 
homes as fast as they could. The street was quite empty. 

With a shrug of the shoulders and a little shudder Rupert 
stepped boldly forth and confronted him. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


A DANGEROUS GAME. 

HE small-eyed ruffian closed one of his tiny orbs 
and stared at Rupert with the other. He was not* 
in the least abashed, and manifested not an atom 
of surprise. 

“You’ve been working on this job some considerable 
time, I think,” Rupert stammered, uneasily. 

“I hev’, * guv’nor, if that’s any satisfaction for yer to 
kn'ow.” 

“It may be a satisfaction, or it may not, it all depends. 
I am interested in one of your mates.” 

The small-eyed man opened both his eyes and waited 
for further information. 

“The young man,” Rupert went on, “with the dark mous- 
tache and curly hair cropped short.” 

“You mean the Markis.” 

“Very likely I do. He carries a hod and often climbs 
the ladder directly in front of you.” 

“Exactly, guv’nor, ’e belongs to the quality, ’e do, but 
we calls ’im the Markis.” 

“And what is your name?” Rupert asked. 

“My nime, guv’nor,” with a leer; “well, my nime is not 
much known to the quality. My nime is Blokes. Edward 
Blokes. Likewise Ned.” “ 

“Well, Mr. Blokes, it is possible that you and I may be 
of service to each other. I suppose you do not object to 
something to drink?” 

“Well, usually I don’t say no when I hev’ the chaunce.” 

“Perhaps you know of some quiet and respectable place 
where we can have a little talk together?” 

Blokes grinned and closed one of his small eyes. “I 
twig,” he said. “You follow me, guv’nor. I know the very 
spot,” and he turned and walked rapidly away, followed 
by Rupert at a respectful distance. 

“I think I’ve found the right man,” Rupert reflected, as 



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he threaded his way through a maze of narrow streets and 
alleys. He was careful, however, to take note of the way 
he took. It was an unsavory neighborhood, and he was 
most anxious not to fall into the pit that he was digging 
for another. 

Blokes paused at length, and waited for Rupert to get 
near him, then he pushed open a narrow door and entered, 
closely followed by his companion. 

It was a small, badly lighted room in which they found 
themselves. Evidently the back of a shop of some kind. 

“We cannot get a drink here?” Rupert questioned. 

“You trust that to me, guv’nor,” the other replied, and 
he gave three raps on a round table that stood in the middle 
of the room. 

A minute later a decrepit old woman entered and re- 
ceived Blokes’s order in silence. When she had retreated 
Blokes drew up two chairs to the table and sat down on 
one himself. Rupert followed his example. 

“You are quite sure we are free from observation here?”’ 
he questioned, uneasily. 

“You mean, guv’nor, that nobody’ll ’ear what we sy’s 
to each other?” 

“That’s just what I do mean.” 

“Then mike yer mind easy on that score, guv’nor, I 
knows what I’m abart.” 

Rupert glanced about him uneasily. He felt that he was 
completely at the mercy of this low-browed ruffian, who, if 
appearance counted for anything, would not scruple to mur- 
der him for a mug of beer. It would never do to show fear, 
however. His company was of his own choosing, and he 
would have now to see the matter through. 

Meanwhile the old woman had returned with two mugs 
of beer, a small loaf of bread, and some cheese. 

“’Eres to yer ’ealth, guv’nor,” Blokes said, closing an 
eye, and he took a gulp of the beer, after which he proceeded 
to attack the bread and cheese with more deliberation. 

Rupert, however, did not follow suit. “I’m neither hun- 
gry nor thirsty, thanks,” he said, apologetically, “and be- 
sides, there is only enough here for one.” 

“There’s more to be ’ad,” Blokes answered, with his mouth, 
full of bread and cheese, “but as you will, guv’nor.” 


A DANGEROUS GAME. 


221 


“I can talk while you are eating,” he said; and he drew 
up his chair and leaned over the small table. 

“I’m all ears,” the other said, and he took another gulp 
of beer. 

Rupert fidgeted for some moments, scarcely knowing how 
to .begin. At length he made a plunge. 

“You will understand that I am acting as agent for some 
well-known people. By profession I am a lawyer. This 
young man whom you call the Marquis stands in the way 
of some very important interests. Do you follow me?” 

“Go ahead, guv’nor. I’m a following you as straight 
as a tow-line.” 

“Very good. It is necessary that he should not be in 
a position to turn up at inconvenient times, or make him- 
self disagreeable. Do you understand?” 

“I twigs, guv’nor; go ahead.” 

“It is not necessary that I should say much more at this 
point. The question is whether you are willing to act in the 
case.” 

“A very proper question,” Blokes answered, clearing his 
mouth. “But you will excuse me, guv’nor, miking the remark 
that you hev gone abart the business in a very clumsy wye.” 

“How so?” Rupert asked, flushing hotly. 

“In this wye, guv’nor. You should have awsertined if 
I were willing to act before mentioning nimes. Do you not 
see that I could give the tip to the Markis to-morrow, an’ 
spoil your gime at once?” 

“If I were dealing with some men I should have done 
so,” Rupert answered; ‘Amt I felt sure directly I saw you 
that I should be safe with you.” 

Blokes grinned, but it was not by any means a pleasant 
grin. 

“In course, you will mike it worth my while keeping 
the secret from the Markis?” he questioned. 

“Of course I shall,” Rupert answered, feeling very angry 
and chagrined. He realized that he had bungled fright- 
fully, and tied: himself to this man in any case. “And now 
about the other matter; can you carry out what I have sug- 
gested?” 

“If you mike it worth my while, guVnor, I’ll consider 
detiles,” and he leaned forward and whispered a sum. 


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Rupert started. “That is impossible/* he said, “the whole 
matter under dispute would not run to it.” 

“Then nime yer ’ighest, guv’nor.” 

Rupert named a sum. 

Blokes rose suddenly from his chair as if he intended to 
imply that the interview was at an end. 

Rupert rose also, feeling very perturbed and ill at ease. 

“I shall be at liberty to mention this matter to the Markis 
in the morning, of course?” Blokes questioned, with a vil- 
lainous leer in his small grey eyes. 

Rupert grew hot all over. “Mr. Blokes,” he said, hastily, 
“I took you to be a gentleman, and I have treated you as 
such. You surely will not blab?” 

Blokes laughed. “This is a matter of bizzness,” he said; 
“I did not arsk yer to nime yer secret to me; an’ you can- 
not very well arsk me as a gen’leman to bear the burden of 
it without paying me f r it.” 

“The secret is the least part of it,” said Rupert, trying 
his best to keep cool. “Sit down, Blokes, and let’s be friends, 
and see if we cannot come to terms.” 

Blokes was inclined to be conciliatory. He was clever 
enough to see that the transaction would not end with the 
day; affairs of this kind laid the principal — unless he was 
more than usually clever — under a perpetual obligation. 

So, after a considerable amount of talk, terms were agreed 
upon. The earnest of Which Blokes carefully stowed away 
in a dirty leather purse, which he explained he always carried 
with him. 

When it came, however, to the working out of the scheme, 
further difficulties arose. Blokes appeared to be troubled 
by a sudden accession of conscience. Anything in the shape 
of murder he shrank from. 

Rupert brought all his forensic skill to bear upon him. 

“It is not to be murder at all,” he said, “it is to be a 
pure accident. The scaffolding where you are working is 
enormously high, and, as anyone can see, is very badly pro- 
tected. A false step, a faulty plank, a rotten stave in the 
ladder, art unexpected jostle at the right moment, and the 
thing is done.” 

“Guv’nor, it’s mighty easy to talk,” Blokes answered, “but 
actin’ mikes more demands on a man’s talent,” 


A DANGEROUS GAME . 


223 


“But you have the talent, Blokes/’ Rupert insinuated 
with his blandest smile. 

“It mye be so, or it mye not be, guv’nor, that is a detile 
we will, not discuss now. First of all, I hey to consider my 
own sifety, then yours.” 

• “Exactly,” Rupert answered, quickly. “There must be 
no bungling.” 

“Then we will meet again two nights from now.” 

“Where?” Rupert questioned. 

“In this ’ere room. We’re quite sife,” and he got up and 
opened the door for Rupert to pass out. 

Rupert drew a long breath of relief when he got into 
the open air, and hurried away as fast as he could into a 
more frequented neighborhood. Once or twice he paused 
and turned round fancying that someone was following him. 
It was an uncomfortable suspicion to get into his mind, for 
he was most anxious to keep his identity an absolute secret 
from Blokes and his associates. 

During the next two days he spent most of his time in 
negotiating further loans. This done he felt that he would 
be able to live comfortably in London for a few months 
at any rate, and in that time much might happen to his 
advantage. He dressed himself in an entirely different suit 
of clothes for his second interview with Mr. Edward Blokes. 
He found the place of meeting without difficulty. Blokes 
was waiting for him. 

The door was opened and closed with scarcely a sound. 
The small room was quite empty. Rupert felt much more 
at his ease than on the first occasion. In thinking the mat- 
ter over he had come to the conclusion that he had scarcely 
compromised himself at all. Blokes did not know who he. 
was or what he was, or where he lived; and even should he 
be disposed to tell all he knew, what harm could come of 
it? Harry might be put on his guard, but the chances were 
he would take no notice of the matter. 

Rupert, however, was reckoning without his host. Walls 
have ears, and in the present case they had eyes also. Rupert 
had been tracked to his lodgings in Bloomsbury and his real 
name ascertained. 

Blokes was in a very cheerful frame of mind. For two 
days he had been considering all the pros and cons of the 


TO PAY TEE PRICE. 


224 

case, and had come to the conclusion that the thing could 
be done and done safely. 

The modus operandi he was not prepared to divulge, but 
he would need a further installment of cash before he would 
go a step further in the case. 

Rupert grumbled considerably at the amount; moreover, 
he did not like the principle of paying for work before it 
was done. 

Blokes was obdurate; unless he was paid a large percent- 
age in advance he would wash his hands of the whole aifair. 

“But I may go on paying you in advance and nothing 
come of it,” Rupert said. . 

“Yer need not mike yerself uneasy on thet score,” Blokes 
protested, “plenty will come of it liter on.” 

“But when?” 

“To-morrow. Yer sty ’ere till it’s dawk, then we goes 
together to the plice. I will show yer a few things. To- 
morrow awfternoon yer come rand in a cawsual wye, like.” 

Rupert shivered, and for some minutes was silent. 

, Soon after it was dark, Rupert and his companion walked 
away together. They had no difficulty in getting through 
the fence that surrounded the new building. But for what 
purpose Blokes had brought him, he could not understand. 
He saw nothing, and did nothing, except climb two ladders, 
iand listen to a whispered talk by his companion that he 
could make neither head nor tail of. 

Outside the fence they parted, taking opposite directions. 
But Rupert had not gone many steps when he came face 
to face with two men, one of whom flashed full upon him 
the light of a bull’s eye lantern. 

The glare almost blinded him for a moment, and he 
started back and raised his hand suddenly to his eyes. 

Nothing was said to him, however, and after a momen- 
tary pause the two men passed on. Nevertheless, the inci- 
dent left an uneasy impression on his mind. Was he be- 
ing watched? Were his steps being dogged? He half re- 
solved not to go near the place on the following day, and 
yet how should he know that Harry had received his quietus 
unless he were near the spot at the time? He was bound 
to risk something if he were to gain his ends; it was a part 
of the price he would have to pay. 


A DANGEROUS GAME. 


225 


He slept very little that night, and such sleep as he 
had was disturbed by unpleasant dreams. He felt that he 
had entered upon a dangerous path, that he had suffered 
loss, that he had parted with the best part of himself. Char- 
acter might not count with the world. Reputation was the 
main thing. Character might not have any money value 
or social value. But. the loss of it meant a good deal to 
the loser. He had an uneasy consciousness that strength 
had gone from him. He felt discredited in his own eyes. 
The world -might never know, yet he felt that he was pay- 
ing too big a price even for an Earldom. It was, however, 
too late to turn back now. He had set the stone rolling 
far up the hillside. He could not stop it if he would. He 
must wait till it reached the bottom. He almost hoped that 
it would not kill Harry on the way, much as he hated him 
and desired his removal. With the dawn of a new day all 
his worst feelings took possession of him again. He saw 
himself hopelessly stranded unless Harry were removed. 
Moreover, no time was to be lost over it. He knew that Lord 
Menheriot was instituting inquiries in all directions for his 
lost heir. Hence if he was to strike at all, he must strike 
quickly. 

The forenoon passed very slowly away. He was impatient 
for the fatal hour to arrive. It was nearly four o’clock when 
he strolled slowly toward the new building. The street was 
busy — as it usually was at that hour of the day. Suddenly a 
quick movement seemed to seize everyone. A rush was made 
for the wooden fence. Cabbies pulled up their vehicles and 
stood upon the seat. ’Bus drivers copied their example. A 
hurried whisper ran from lip to lip. “Scaffold accident — 
man killed dead on the spot.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 


AS A MAN SOWS. 



UPERT’S heart gave a sudden bound, and then 
seemed for a moment to stand still. A minute 
later he was hurrying forward with the crowd 
toward the scene of the accident, but it was no 
easy matter to thread his way amongst five hundred others 
who were as eager to get within the enclosure as himself. 

Every one knows how quickly a crowd gathers in London. 
People came running from all directions, out of courts and 
alleys and side streets as the news of the accident spread. 
Old and young, men and women, rushed eagerly forward to 
know the truth of what had happened. 

Rupert saw that his chance of seeing the body of the 
man was hut a small one, unless he could gain assistance from 
-someone in authority. Fortunately for him he came up with 
a policeman, and placing a half-crown in his hand, and whis- 
pering to him that he had reason to believe that the man who 
had fallen from the scaffold was a client of his, he soon had 
a way made through the ci;owd, and in a few minutes was 
standing by the side of the prostrate form. A handkerchief 
had already been laid over the man’s face, but this was lifted 
off at Rupert’s request, and he saw to his horror and to his 
satisfaction that the man was no other than Harry Morton. 
The face was cut and bruised and bleeding, but it was the 
face of the man he hated, and who had stood between him 
and rank and wealth and position. 

“You think he is dead,” he said, turning to the police- 
man and to some others who seemed to be in authority. 

“There’s no doubt about it,” was the reply; “no man could 
fall from such a height and be alive.” 

“I find he is not my client after all,” Rupert said to the 
policeman who had conducted him to the spot, and thanking 
him turned away and was soon swallowed up in the surging 
crowd. 

He was in a very exultant mood, when at length he found 



AS A MAN SOWS. 


227 


himself in one of the busier thoroughfares on the top of an 
omnibus. The day was fine, the sun shining brightly over- 
head, the street was alive with people, the scene was exhil- 
arating in its movement and color. But Rupert’s one 
thought was that he had accomplished his aim, and accom- 
plished it in such a way that suspicion could not possibly 
attach itself to him. There was no pity in his heart that 
a young life had been so ruthlessly destroyed, and for the 
moment even his conscience did not trouble him; everything 
was swallowed up in the exultant feeling that the one obstacle 
that stood between him and wealth and position had been 
removed, and in due course he was bound to come into pos- 
session of a title and an estate. 

So exultant did he feel that he resolved on a specially 
good dinner in honor of the event. Making his way to the 
Holborn Restaurant, he sat down to enjoy himself, while a 
band discoursed sweet music, and wealth and fashion 
thronged the halls of that huge establishment. It was late 
when he reached his lodgings in Bloomsbury, and great was 
his surprise, when, on pushing open his sitting-room door, 
he found a stranger sitting in s6mi-darkness in an easy-chair 
near the window. Rupert gave a start and an exclamation. 
The stranger did not rise, however, and manifested no con- 
cern. Speaking quite calmly he said, “You seem surprised, 
guv’nor, to see me in this plice; but I thought I’d just come 
and congratulate yer, and at the same time speak just a word 
of warning/’ 

“What, you!” said Rupert in astonishment. “How did 
you find out where I lived?” 

“Oh, that’s a mere detile,” the other said, insolently. 

“Then you have been shadowing me?” questioned Rupert 
in a tone of indignation. 

“And what if I hev?” the other asked. 

“What if you have?” thundered Rupert; “I object to any 
one following me about and watching my movements.” 

“I reckon your objecting can’t mike any difference,” was 
the reply. “If I chooses to find out where the gent as emplies 
me lives, that is my business and I have a right to do so.” 

“You’ve no right to do anything of the sort,” was the 
reply; “you have no business to come to this house.” 

“Don’t be so mighty touchy,” said the other, patronizingly; 


228 


TO PAY THE PRICE . 


“you said as you and I was to be friends, I’ve helped yer to 
carry out yer little gime, and yer don t suppose that Fm goin’ 
to let yer escipe without pirnent, do yer?” 

“You need not have followed me here; you would have 
found me as good as my word.” 

“But I wanted to warn yer,” was the reply; “two men saw 
yer last evenin’, and folks are on the look out for yer. You 
see it’s been discovered that the accident was owing to some- 
thing or somebody as put dinger in the wye of the young 
man.” 

“Well, what of that? I did not put danger in his path.” 

“P’raps not, guv’nor, but you were seen in the show last 
night; you were seen coming art of the plice; two men would 
know yer fice again if they were to see yer, and Fve come to 
tell yer not to be seen in that neighborhood agine for the 
present at any rite.” 

Rupert grew hot and cold by turns. 

“You scoundrel,” he said, “now I see why you induced me 
to go to the place last night; it was simply a ruse of yours 
to get me into your power.” 

“Well, guv’nor, Fve got yer into my power, I wants yer 
to mike no mistike on that point.” 

“You think you have,” said Rupert, with an uneasy laugh, 
“but do you imagine I am such a silly bird as to be caught 
with such chaff?” 

“Well, guv’nor, try yer ’and at esciping, and you’ll soon 
find out whether you are in my power or no.” 

“Who said I wanted to escape?” Rupert asked. 

“I didn’t say you did, but the likes of you might want 
to do. You might go awy out of the town to-morrow, and I 
might whistle for my money if I hadn’t just a little hold 
upon yer.” 

“I shall go where I like and you cannot hinder me,” was 
the reply. 

“I wants to put no obstacle in the wye of your move- 
ments,” the other answered with an impertinent grin; “all I 
wants you to understand is: that when I wishes to renew the 
ackwinetince you don’t turn up your nose and pertend that 
yer don’t know me.” 

“And suppose I do pretend that I don’t know you?” 

“Well, you had better not try it on; but before we part 


AS A MAN SOWS. 


229 


to-night you had better .hand me over the balance of what 
yer promised me.” 

“And if I do that I presume you will never molest me 
again?” 

“Well, guv’nor, I shouldn’t like to cut old friendship short 
in such an abrupt wye.” 

“And do you mean that you intend to dog my steps and 
levy blackmail whenever you feel disposed to do so?” 

“Oh, nothing of the kind, guv’nor; I only wants to keep 
yer friendship. You’re a gentleman of my own liking, and 
I don’t want to lose sight of yer, that’s all.” 

“Oh, very well,” said Rupert, adopting a conciliatory tone; 
“let us part good friends, and if you ever recognize me in the 
future he kind enough to do it when no one else is about.” 

“Ah, now, guv’nor, you talk like a gentleman,” was the 
reply; “you must not suppose that I will stand in the wye 
of yer advauncement, or of my own.” 

“I should hope not, indeed; you ought to know on which 
side your bread is buttered.” 

“Well, guv’nor, I thinks I does.” 

“I a*m not sure that you do, still the little business that 
you entered upon has been carried through successfully. I 
presume the fellow has shown no sign of coming to life 
again?” Rupert questioned. 

The other laughed harshly. “No fear of that, guv’nor; 
he’s as dead as a coffin nail.” 

“That is satisfactory; now let us square accounts, for I 
am tired and want to get off to bed.” 

A few minutes later Rupert saw his visitor into the street 
and bolted the door behind him; then, with a sigh of relief, 
he took his candle and made his way upstairs to his own bed- 
room. But, though he tried hard to court sleep, sleep would 
not come. He felt as though he had been weaving a rope 
for his own execution. He had flattered himself that Blokes 
did not know who he was, or what he was, or where he lived. 
He had discovered evidently where he lived, and for all he 
knew he might have discovered the other things; and he saw, 
not without a shudder, that this man might track him even 
to the day of his death. The next day he shifted his lodgings 
to another part of the city, and for several days he went 
About unmolested. He kept as far away as possible from the 


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scene of the accident, and avoided all places where he thought 
it likely Blokes might be. 

But Blokes was evidently a man of resource, for Rupert 
had not been in his new lodgings a fortnight when he was 
greatly surprised on receiving another visit from his acquaint- 
ance. Blokes, dressed in holiday attire and evidently on good 
terms with himself, swaggered into his room, and drawing a 
small handbill from his pocket passed it on to Rupert and 
waited the result. 

Rupert read it with cheeks that grew paler and paler 
every moment until he stood before his* tormentor with a 
face like a corpse. 

"Why did you bring me this?’ ’he asked at length. 

"Just to show yer that there’s dinger in yer path,” was 
the reply. 

"But I have no intention of going into that neighborhood 
again,” he answered, and he read the handbill a second time. 
It was headed "Police Notice,” and went on to state that a 
reward of ten pounds would be given for information that 
would lead to the discovery of the culprit who had tampered 
with the scaffolding at a certain building whereby a serious 
accident had happened the day before. It further stated that 
after dark on the previous evening a man dressed like a gen- 
tleman was seen lurking behind the wooden hoarding evi- 
dently for no good purpose; that two watchmen employed on 
the adjoining premises saw him come through a small open- 
ing in the boarding and flashed their lights upon him, and 
were quite certain that they would be able to recognize him 
again if they saw him. The bill further stated that the gen- 
tleman, whoever he was, evidently intended foul play, and 
that the above reward w r ould be given to any one who would 
give such information as would Lead to his discovery. 

"It seems, guv’nor, that they’re miking it warm for yer,” 
said Blokes, insinuatingly, when Rupert lifted his head the 
second time. 

"Making it warm for me, you scoundrel,” he said; "they’re 
making it warm for you.” 

"Oh, nothing of the kind,” was the reply; "you see I was 
not seen loitering abart the plice.” 

"Well, what of that?” was the answer. 

"Well, you see, the mischief is you were seen in the plice 


AS A MAX SOWS. 


231 


after dawk, and the cucumstaunces in course looks suspi- 
cious.” 

“Well?” 

“Well, I’ve brought yer information, and it. ought to be 
worth something.” 

“You mean that you expect me to pay you more money.” 

“Well, guv'nor, if you like to put it in that pline wye, of 
course I don't object.” 

“Then let me tell you once for all that you will not have 
another penny from me.” 

“I'm soory to 'ear yer sye that,” was the answer, “for you 
see I shall be under the pineful necessity of getting the ten 
pound that is offered in this 'ere notice.” 

“What do you mean?” was the angry retort. 

“I just means what I sye. Here is ten pounds offered for 
the discovery of the gentleman as was seen aloiterin' abawt 
the premises after dawk. You were seen. The men as saw 
yer outside can swear to yer if they are brought fice to fice 
with yer.” 

“I confess I don't see what you are driving at,” Rupert 
said, growing very hot. 

“I thought, guv'nor, that I'd spoken pline enough. I 
told you in the other plice that you were in my power; now 
you understand, I think, that you are. I don't arsk for ten 
pounds; I will be more generous. Two pounds will just put 
me on. I'm 'ard up at present, and I'm sure you carn’t 
compline of my demand.” 

“I do complain very much. I gave you all we bargained 
for. Between man and man I have acted fairly. For you to 
come and blackmail me in this way is intolerable.” 

“Well, you see, I'm hawd up at present, and as an old 
friend I am sure you will help me out.” 

Rupert protested, and swore and argued and grew angry, 
but in the end he gave the money, and Blokes went away 
with a smile upon his sinister face. When he had gone 
Rupert dropped into his easy-chair and tried to think. It 
was very evident that, while he remained in London, he was 
shadowed everywhere. This man, doubtless, was one of a 
gang. He had his confederates, who shared his money and 
who kept watch over his (Rupert's) movements. 

“This will never do,” he reflected; “I must put an end to 


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it somehow, but how? Then he pulled out his watch and 
looked at it. “Fm too late for the last train,” he said, “so I 
may as well content myself to remain here another night, but 
to-morrow I had better get back to Graystone, and make as 
good an excuse to my father as I can. It’s horribly humili- 
ating, but it is evident that London is not just the place for 
me at present.” 

The next day, much to the surprise of his father and 
mother, he turned up again at the rectory. He explained 
that he was not feeling at all well, that he was quite certain 
that he was in for an attack of influenza, and so well did he 
feign illness that he remained in bed a whole week without 
exciting any suspicion. Indeed, he looked ill, and was fever- 
ish and restless. His mother was quite concerned about him, 
and wanted to call in the doctor, but he would not hear of 
that. 

“I’ll be all right in a few days,” he said, “but this kind of 
thing takes it out of a man.” 

For another week he kept in the house, and for several 
days after that never went beyond the rectory grounds. How 
and then he looked across at the Hall, but made no attempt to 
go there. Within a month of his return he had recovered his 
usual strength and spirits; he was able to sleep again without 
being disturbed by painful and distressing dreams. All fear 
of encountering Blokes passed away from his mind; he felt 
certain that at last he had "destroyed the scent. In the coun- 
try he was safe from molestation. 

His surprise, therefore, was all the greater when one after- 
noon, walking across the fields in the direction of Minver, he 
came face to face with nofie other than the dreaded Blokes. 

“What, you here!” he exclaimed in astonishment. 

“Well, guv’nor, I thought I would just come along and 
inquire after. yer ’ealfh. I discovered that yer left London 
not at all well, and as a friend I thought I would come and 
inquire.” 

“You are very kind indeed,” said Bupert, cynically. “I 
can assure you I do not need so much attention,” but though 
he spoke calmly he was in a state of greater excitement than 
he had been for many a long day. It really seemed to him that 
there was no escape from the penalty of his wrong-doing. 
Blokes discovered him wherever he might be, followed him 


AS A MAN SOWS. 


233 


wherever he went, and demanded money at every possible op- 
portunity. 

Moreover, he had not the courage to resist him. He did 
not know how much the man knew. That he knew a great 
deal was only too evident, that he was in the ruffian’s power 
he was only too fully convinced, but whether he would resort 
to extremes in case he refused to be further blackmailed he 
did not know. 

To put the matter into the hands of the police might re- 
veal a great deal that he wished to keep secret, and yet to be 
shadowed and blackmailed was intolerable. 

“Yer do not seem pleased, guv’nor, to see an old friend,” 
Blokes said, with a wicked leer in his small grey eyes. 

“Come, stop your fooling,” Rupert said, impatiently; “let 
me know how much it is that you want this time, and then 
take yourself off as quickly as possible.” 

“Well, as I have come a considerable distance,” said 
Blokes, unabashed, “sye double the amount you gave last 
time.” 

Rupert pulled his purse out of his pocket, and emptied its 
contents into the fellow’s hand. 

“There,” he said, bitterly, “it is. all I have. I can’t give 
you what I don’t possess.” 

“P’raps yer relitions will come to yer ’elp afore I see yer 
agine,” Blokes said with a bland smile, and quietly took his 
departure. 

Rupert went home and shut himself up in his room, and 
two hours later his mother found him feverish and unstrung, 
and insisted on sending for the doctor. 

But it is not within the province of the medical profession 
to minister to diseases of the mind. Rupert was discovering 
how great was the price he had to pay; and the last of the 
toll had not been exacted yet. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


SORTING THINGS OUT. 

OXICA meanwhile had taken the law into her own 
hands. Rightly or wrongly she had come to the 
conclusion that she was not wanted at Graystone, 
that she was in the way, that she was a drag on 
her guardian’s movements, that she imposed a burden upon 
him that he would be glad to be without, and that he would 
be much happier if he were relieved from further responsi- 
bility. 

She was fully convinced in her own mind that Lord Men- 
heriot’s son, wherever and whenever he might be found, 
would prove to be a clown, whose presence at the Hall would 
change the entire character of the place, and make life for her 
practically intolerable. 

Furthermore, the proximity of the rectory to the Hall 
would be a source of constant irritation. She would of neces- 
sity be continually thrown into the way of Rupert Grant, and 
after what had happened anything more unpleasant she could 
not imagine. 

The morning after her interview with Dorothy Fielding 
she awoke as from a painful dream. The confusion of 
the previous evening had completely passed away from her 
mind, the mists had been lifted from her eyes, and she saw 
almost for the first time life as it might be and as it ought to 
be. 

She was no longer in doubt as to whether she was sorry 
or glad. It was as though a heavy load had been rolled from 
her heart. All the considerations that had oppressed her the 
night before seemed as nothing in comparison with the glad 
sense of freedom that had come to her. She might be the 
talk of the county, the subject of endless gossip, the object of 
a prurient and vulgar curiosity. But what of that? She 
need not show herself unless she liked. She need not remain 
in Graystone unless she liked. 

And she gave a little gasp as this thought flitted through 



SORTING THINGS OUT. 


235 


her brain. She had never thought of acting independently, 
of fighting her own way in the world. She was only a girl to 
be watched over and cared for, and to follow where others led. 

But — and a strange light came into her eyes with the new 
thought — she was a woman now. Why should she be always 
in leading strings? Why should she not go her own way? 
Do something for herself and for others? She had lived 
selfishly up to the present. Cooped up in a narrow little 
world, where she had scarcely room to breathe, what was there 
to hinder her in the future living a larger life? She had 
money — more than she needed — might she not do some good 
with it? 

She had sent a donation now and then to this organization 
and that, and there her good work had ceased. She had read 
now and then of what others had done to lighten the burden 
and brighten the life of the poor and suffering and outcast, 
but she had taken no real part in it. 

There was a settlement somewhere in London, that she 
had often felt curious to see, where help was rendered, not by 
paid officials, but’ by men and women who gave of their time 
and strength and money, asking for no reward but the joy of 
doing good. 

She got up at length, and drew aside the curtains and 
looked out over the smiling landscape. She was never tired 
of it’s beauty. It was always restful, too, and year by year its 
peace remained untouched and undisturbed. But to-day the 
very quiet seemed to make her restless. 

“I can do nothing here/’ she said to herself; “I cannot 
write books in this seclusion that will stir people’s hearts to 
nobler things. I cannot paint pictures that shall kindle in 
men a greater love of beauty. I am not clever; I am only an 
ordinary commonplace girl. But, surely, though I am 
neither a poet nor an artist, I may do good some other way. 
I have a voice to sing, I have money that I may use to some 
worthy purpose.” 

Then she fell on her knees by her bedside, and thanked 
God that she had been saved from a fate that she saw clearly 
enough now would have been a living death to her. And 
while" she prayed the impulse to go out into the world and do 
something for others seemed to be strengthened a hundred- 
fold. 


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TO PAY THE PRICE . 


Later in the day she took her guardian into her confidence, 
and to her surprise he raised no strong or definite objection. 
He smiled at her in his cynical way and said she would tire of 
playing the lady- bountiful in a week. 

“Then you don’t object to my going and having a look at 
the work?” she questioned. 

“Well, no,” he said, hesitatingly; “you need a change of 
some kind after what has happened. 

“Change is of no use,” she said, “unless it gives one some 
interest in life.” 

“Well, Monica, you are beyond my control now,” he said, 
seriously; “but let me urge you not to do anything rash.” 

She walked up to his chair and stooped and kissed him on 
the forehead. 

“You’ve been very good to me, Guardy,” she said, “and I 
shall never repay you for all your kindness. But it’s time I 
got out of the old ruts. Besides ” then she hesitated. 

“Besides what?” he questioned. 

“Perhaps you will be finding and bringing home your son 
soon, so I had better be out of the way.” 

He smiled sadly for a moment, and wondered whether or 
no he should tell her that his son was her old playfellow and 
companion, but after a moment’s hesitation he decided he 
would not. 

“I have heard nothing of him yet,” he answered; “I some- 
times fear I shall never find him.” 

“In which case Rupert will still be heir of Graystonn after 
his father?” 

“Yes.” 

“I hardly know which I the more sympathize with,” she 
said, after a pause. 

He looked up at her curiously, but did not speak, and a 
moment later she left the room, and went and wrote a letter 
to the principal of the Settlement in which she had become 
suddenly interested; after which she donned her hat and went 
off into the village to post it. 

A little beyond the park gates, she passed what had been 
for so many years the schoolmaster’s house. 

She never looked at it without thinking of Harry, and to- 
day Harry had been in her thoughts more than ever. She 
felt that she was free to think of him now if she liked. She 


SORTING THINGS OUT. 


237 


was wronging no one else by doing so. How was lie faring in 
His struggle with the world? and a wistful and far-away look 
came into her eyes. 

Then the cottage door was thrown open and the young 
minister came out into the garden. ' He raised his hat to her 
and smiled. 

She paused as he came toward the gate. “Are you going 
into the village?” she asked. 

“I am, Miss Monica,” he replied. 

“So am I, so we may as well walk together.” 

He felt the compliment and smiled. She was an Earl’s 
ward and a lady of high degree, hut had she been simply ^ 
farmer’s daughter she could not have been more at home with 
all classes. 

“I hear that your predecessors have become quite big peo- 
ple,” she said, after they had gone a few yards. 

“I am afraid they have,” he answered, with a smile. 

“Afraid they have, Mr. Everett?” 

“Yes. The worst thing that can happen to some people is 
to gjow rich rapidly.” 

“Have you seen any of the Mortons since they left?” 

“I have seen Miss Madge once or twice,” he answered, with 
a slight blush. 

“And has she become the grand lady?” 

“Oh, no. Indeed, I think she is very unhappy in her new 
surroundings.” 

“Why?” 

“That I cannot tell you. I am only giving you my im- 
pression.” 

“And did she speak of her brother?” The question came 
out abruptly, after a considerable pause. Then she added 
quickly, “Of course, we have learned since that he is not her 
brother, though it is natural to speak of him as such.” 

“He will always be as a brother to her,” he answered. 

“She believes in him?” 

“Absolutely. And so do I, Miss Monica, and I fancy most 
other people do who know him.” 

“I suppose you have never seen him since — since his re- 
lease?” 

“Ho, and I question if any one else has — I mean of his old 
acquaintances.” 


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“Don’t you think the Mortons have?” 

“They had not the last time I saw Miss Madge. No, he 
seems determined to hide himself from all who knew him.” 

“I do not wonder.” 

“No, but it is terribly hard on a young fellow of so much 
promise. But I hope a new trial will be granted and that he 
will yet be cleared.” 

“A new trial?” she asked, and she stopped suddenly in her 
walk; “what do you mean by that?” 

“Have you not heard?” he questioned in surprise. 

“I have heard nothing. What do you refer to?” 

“I know nothing except w r hat I have seen in The Daily 
News,” he answered. “But as far as I can make out an appli- 
cation has been made for a new trial on the ground that a 
quantity of fresh evidence has been forthcoming that was not 
available at the time of the trial.” 

“But that can be of no service to him now,” she said. 
“He has served his full time in prison.” 

Ernest Everett smiled. “If hehs proved to be innocent it 
will be of very great service to him,” he said; “indeed, 
to have his good name restored to him will be worth every- 
thing.” 

“In that sense, of course,” Monica answered, looking far 
away 'along the lane. “But I was thinking of the years he 
has suffered. Nothing can take the iron out of his soul.” 

“No, that is the most painful part ot it, and it seems an 
awful farce to talk of the Queen’s Pardon w r hen a man has 
been wrongfully condemned, and when for years he has suf- 
fered innocently.” 

“I sincerely hope a new trial will be granted,” Monica 
said, speaking in a tone of indifference that she by no means 
felt. In fact, the bare suggestion that Harry’s good name 
might yet be restored to him had set her heart throbbing 
wildly. 

During the rest of the way very little was said, and in the 
village they parted company. Monica was everywhere greet- 
ed with smiles and good wishes, for no one knew yet that the 
wedding was not to take place. It was not until the following 
day that a whisper ran through the -village that the wedding 
had been postponed. 

A week later, Monica and the Earl traveled to London to- 


SORTING THINGS OUT. 


239 


gether, and then in some way or other the truth leaked out 
that the engagement had been broken oh entirely. 

Monica remained a month at the Settlement. But she 
was of too independent a nature to work permanently by rule 
or under a committee. She was constantly breaking out in 
fresh places. Her quick eye saw other things to be done that 
did not come within the scope of the organization. 

Her month of trial was a revelation to her. A revelation 
that stirred her sympathies to the very depths. She never 
knew before to what depths of poverty and want and despair 
people might sink; never realized before what good people 
might do if they had only the heart and will to set about it; 
never understood what thousands of children might be helped 
and saved if taken in hand at the right time. 

At first she wa^ appalled at the enormity of the work. The 
little she could do was as nothing in comparison with what 
wanted doing. When she had done her best she would be 
but as a bird pecking at a mountain. Indeed, she could do 
so little that she asked herself whether it was worth her 
while doing anything at all. It is an old question, and most 
people find it a very convenient excuse. 

When she had been a month in the East of London, she 
went to Bayswater and took possession of the house that had 
been furnished for her and Rupert. 

“I want time to sort out things,” she said to herself, “to 
find out if possible where I am to get an idea as to what I can 
do best, and what I can’t do at all.” 

But this work of sorting out took longer than she expect- 
ed, for she found that she had to organize her household at 
the same time. This proved a very interesting occupation, 
and set her thoughts running in new directions. 

She had scarcely got her house in order when her guardian 
called. 

“I did not know you were in town,” she said, greeting him 
with effusion. * 

“I came up yesterday,” he answered, “and, having an hour 
to spare, I thought I would look you up.” 

“I should think so, indeed!” she replied. “And how are 
all the folks at Graystone?” 

“Well; except, of course, Lady Menheriot and Rupert, 
who, I am sorry to say, is back at the Rectory on the sick-list,” 


240 


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“I am sorry .” 

“And so you have settled down to domestic life without a 
husband?” 

“I have settled down to nothing yet. I am only feeling 
my way about, trying to sort out things and get my bearings.” 

The Earl laughed. “You find it a very interesting occu- 
pation, no doubt.” 

“So far, yes. You see, I am kept busy, and that is a 
great thing. Do you know the weeks seem as short now as 
the days used to do.” 

“Is that an advantage?” he asked; “life will 4 seem all the 
shorter.” 

“Oh, no,” she replied, laughingly, “it will seem all the 
longer. There will he so much to' remember.” 

“And are you really going to stay in London?” 

“For the present at any rate. Of course, I shall come 
down to Graystone now and then when I want a change.” 

“But you will find housekeeping a great worry.” 

“I don’t think so. Besides, you know, I have my old 
nurse with me as second in command, and she has been able to 
secure some excellent servants.” 

“Humph! it’s early days yet toTalk of that.” 

“Is it? Oh, well, when I get tired of it I will give it up.” 

“But I thought,” he laughed, ’’that you were going to live 
down Whitechapel way and practice philanthropy in a garret.” 

“I may do so yet,” she answered; “did I not tell you I am 
busy sorting out things ?” 

“Oh, yes, I have not forgotten that,” he said, with a laugh, 
“but, judging by appearances, you have sorted out things 
pretty well, and, if I were asked to give an opinion, I should 
say that the garret idea was ‘off.’ ” 

“Well, perhaps it is for the present,” she said knitting 
her brows; “and do you know I am not sure that, in order to 
help people who are down, it is necessary that you should go 
to live their life and play at being down yourself.” 

“Indeed!” 

“Well, I am rather at sea on the point at present. Some 
of the sisters used to insist upon it that to help these wretched 
people you must live among them, spend your days and nights 
in their midst; and that they are doing a lot of good there is 
no denying. But 


SORTING THINGS OUT. 


241 


The Earl waited for her to continue with an amused smile 
upon his face. 

“It seems to me like this, Guardy. If a man is down in 
a pit in the darkness and cold, stuck fast in the mud, you may 
help him by going down to him, and trying to lift hint on 
your shoulder, as it were. Or you may help him by remain- 
ing up in the light and warmth, and lowering a bucket to 
him.” 

“And you prefer remaining up in the warmth, eh?” 

“Well, yes, if by so doing I can do just as much good. I 
may be selfish, I expect I am, but just at present I do not see 
the use of playing the martyr merely for the sake of being a 
martyr.” 

“Sounds reasonable, that.” 

“I know you are laughing at me all the time, and think 
I am just a bit crazy. But if I can do a little good in the 
world, that seems about the only thing that is worth living 
for.” 

The Earl did not reply. Indeed, he Avas not at all certain 
that Monica had not grasped the true idea of life. 

“Won’t you stay to dinner?” she asked, when at length he 
rose to go. 

“I cannot, thank you, Monica,” he said; “I have an ap- 
pointment with the Home Secretary at seven o’clock.” 

“With the Home Secretary?” she questioned, and instant- 
ly her conversation with Ernest Everett weeks before flashed 
through her mind. 

“Shall I tell her?” was the question that he debated for a 
moment, and again he decided in the negative. 

Before they saw each other again, a good many things 
had happened. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 

WEEK or two later, when walking in Oxford street, 
Monica came face to face with Madge Morton. She 
recognized her in a moment, though more than 
three years had passed since their last meeting. 
Madge looked just as young and just as winsome as in the old 
days, when she used to go singing across the fields to give 
music lessons to the farmers’ daughters of Graystone. 

“Oh, I am so glad to see you,” Monica said, in her bright 
cheery way, when their first greetings were over; “and do you 
know I think you are just the one who can help me.” 

“Help you?” Madge said, lifting her sweet, brown eyes in 
surprise. 

“Why, of course. You know I live in London now, and 
have heaps of schemes on hand.” 

“Xo, I did not know,” Madge said, wondering that anyone 
who was not driven by circumstances could leave the sweet air 
and beauty of Graystone for the smoke and roar of London. 

“I have a house in Bayswater,” Monica went on, “and I 
am experimenting on — but I am afraid it is too long a story. 
Are you busy this afternoon?” 

“Hot at all. I have come down here more to kill time 
than anything else.” 

“Then come home with me, and we can have a long talk, 
and I will tell you all about my schemes. You don’t mind 
riding on the top of a penny ’bus, I hope.” 

“On the contrary, I enjoy it.” 

“So do I. I never get into a hansom unless I am in a 
hurry. Of course, on a ’bus one cannot pick one’s company, 
but that doesn’t matter, no one knows me here.” 

A few minutes later they were rolling toward the Marble 
Arch side by side on a garden seat. 

“I think this is just lovely,” Monica said, with a laugh. 
“For pure enjoyment I don’t think there is anything in Lon- 
don equal to it.” 



IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 


243 


“I agree with you/’ said Madge; “I have been all over 
London this way.” 

“Ah, then you are ahead of me; I am only just beginning 
to appreciate it.” 

llalf-an-hour later they were closeted in Monica’s draw- 
ing-room, Madge’s brown eyes wandered round the apartment 
with evident admiration. 

“Do you like it?” Monica asked, following the direction 
of Madge’s eyes. 

“I think it is lovely.” 

“I was to have come here as a bride, you know; but there 
was a fortunate slip betwixt cup and lip.” 

“I am afraid I do not understand,” Madge said. 

“Have you not heard?” 

“I have heard nothing.” 

“Oh, well, as it has become public property X may as well 
tell you all about it,” and she did. 

“Are you not sorry?” Madge questioned at length. 

“Sorry! I am infinitely glad.” 

“But why did you promise to marry him?” 

“Ah, Madge, why do women make such promises?” 

“They cannot help themselves sometimes, of course; they 
are forced into it. But you ” 

“Ho, please do not add another word,” Monica said, with 
a laugh. “I was forced into it somehow. I don’t know how. 
There was no big push, but a lot of little ones, and I hadn’t 
the strength or the courage to resist them. Besides, it seemed 
the only thing for me. I got an idea that it was my fate, so 
I drifted, and the current got stronger all the time, and there 
was no one to save me. It seems like an awful nightmare to 
me now.” 

Madge breathed hard and wondered if deliverance would 
come to her. She would have liked to take Monica into her 
confidence, but that would mean exposing the rottenness of 
her father’s financial position, and she dared not do that. 

The conversation drifted away at length to Monica’s phil- 
anthropic schemes. Among the rest, she was going to send 
some cripple children to Graystone for a month’s holiday. 

“To Graystone?” Madge questioned, and her eyes grew 
bright in a moment. Graystone, the very name was music 
in her ears. 


244 


TO PAT THE PRICE. 


“Yes, I only decided on that yesterday. I got a letter 
from Mr. Everett. Do you know him?” 

“You mean the minister of Bethel?” Madge questioned, 
with averted eyes. 

“Yes. Well, he enters heart and soul into the scheme. I 
will show you his letter directly. Y r ou see I could not write 
to the rector. Then Mr. Everett is young and energetic. He 
says he can easily board out fifty children for a month, in 
clean, roomy cottages, and the people will be delighted to add 
a little, in this way, to their incomes.” 

“How good of you,” said Madge, earnestly. 

“Ho, don’t say that, please. I'm awfully afraid I’m doing 
it just because it interests me, and I like it. But it entails 
a lot of work, and will entail more, and so you see I want 
someone to help me.” 

“I shall be delighted to assist you if I may. I really want 
something to pass the time away.” 

Afternoon tea was brought, and Monica grew eloquent in 
unfolding her plans — plans, be it said, that were only in a 
state of nebulosity at present, but which were, nevertheless, 
fraught with far-reaching possibilities. 

And yet, while Monica talked of so many things, all the 
while there was one question that was constantly on her lips, 
one subject that was uppermost in her thoughts. 

Madge rose to go at length, and then it came to the sur- 
face. 

“Have you seen or heard from Harry lately?” 

Madge sat down again, and clasped her hands. 

“Ho,” she said, with a. little gasp, “I feel very much 
troubled about him.” 

“For what reason?” 

“For the very reason that he never breaks the silence. He 
only discovered where we lived early in June, and he prom- 
ised me faithfully then that he would come to see me again.” 

“And he has never done so?” 

“Ho, he has not even written. Sometimes I think he 
must be ill or that some accident has happened to him.” 

“And did he not leave you his address?” 

“Ho, and I stupidly did not think of asking him for it. 
I keep looking for him whenever I go into the City, and every 
day I hope that I shall hear from him or see him.” 


IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN: 


245 


“It seems strange that he does not communicate with 
you/’ Monica said, reiiectively. “Did he seem in good spirits 
when he came to see you?” 

“Yes, on the whole, I think,” Madge said, hesitatingly. 
“Of course, he was very much upset. I don’t think father 
had received him very kindly, and then he heard for the first 
time the secret of his parentage.” 

“I hope he is succeeding,” Monica said, after a long pause. 
“It must be a very hard struggle for him.” 

“He told me he was very busy,” Madge answered, “though 
he did not tell me what he was doing.” 

After that day Madge and Monica often met, and a week 
later they traveled down to Graystone with the first batch of 
Monica’s proteges. 

To Madge it seemed almost like a dream. The time was 
early September, the w r eather was perfect, the country look- 
ing, its best. There was no sign of autumn yet save in the 
shortening days. The trees stood up in their richest green, 
the hedgerows and gardens were full of flowers, and over all 
was the glamour of the sunshine glorifying everything. 

As the train sped on through the beautiful country Madge 
was too excited to talk. She was going back to Graystone — • 
sweet, secluded Graystone — the most beautiful place on earth, 
and that thought crowded out every other. 

She felt a little strange when the train pulled up at the 
station; the place seemed smaller than in the old days. Even 
the hills and trees seemed to have shrunk. 

Ernest Everett was at the station to meet them, an eager, 
wondering, light in his eyes. But he had no time to give 
to Madge then. The poor children required all his attention. 

By noon all the little waifs were safely housed in their 
temporary homes, and then Monica, Madge, and the young 
minister walked away together in the direction of Graystone 
Park. 

Monica had promised her guardian to spend one night at 
the Hall. Moreover, she was anxious to have a second look 
at her proteges after they had spent a night in their new 
homes before she returned to London. Madge was a little 
undecided what to do. But when Earl Menheriot added his 
entreaty to Monica’s she consented to spend the night at the 
Hall with her friend. 


TO PAT THE PRICE. 


246 


Now it so happened that after lunch Monica had many 
things to talk over with her guardian, and repaired to his 
study for that purpose, and Madge, being thus left to her own 
devices, strolled out on the lawn and from thence into the 
park. 

She said to herself that it was much pleasanter out of 
doors than in, which was quite true; also that she had not 
such beautiful grounds to wander in every day of her life, 
which was also true; also that she wanted to feast her eyes on 
the surrounding country, which she had never ceased to 
dream about and long for since she went away. 

So, letting herself out of the great house where she felt 
very much less strange than she expected, she went forth into 
the soft September sunshine. How silent the world seemed, 
how restful the hills and fields! What would she not give to 
comeback to dear old Graystone to spend the rest of her days. 

When a few minutes after she saw Ernest Everett coming 
toward her she did not seem in the least surprised, and when 
he grasped her hand so tightly that he hurt her fingers she was 
not in the least put out, and then they wandered away under 
the trees together. 

“Isn’t it lovely here?” she said at length to her companion. 

“But a little quiet,” he added. 

“Oh, I love the quiet; I hate the noisy strife of London.” 

“But you would not like to come back here to live again?” 

“Would not like it? The place seems like heaven to me.” 

“I think you would find it very dull after the life you are 
leading now.” 

“Ah,” she said with a pathetic smile, “we all walk in a 
vain show and disquiet ourselves in vain.” 

Then for a while they walked on in silence till they found 
a rustic seat that was large enough for two. A dove was coo- 
ing in the tree above them, but that was the only sound that 
broke the delicious stillness. 

“I wondered if I should have a chance of seeing you 
alone,” _Ernest began. “I have long wanted to have a talk 
with you.” 

She glanced up at him inquiringly, and then her eyes fell. 

“I may be very presumptuous,” he went on, “but I cannot 
help telling you that I love you, and that I have loved you 
ever since I came to Graystone.” 


IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 


247 


She made a movement as if to silence him, but she could 
not somehow. It was so sweet to be told that she was loved 
by the man she cared more for than for any one else in the 
world. 

“I know I have nothing to offer,” he went on, “in the 
shape of worldly goods. For a Nonconformist minister in 
Graystone there is only poverty. But — -■ — •” 

“Oh, please do not say another word,” she said, chokingly, 
and her eyes filled to the brim with tears. 

“Do you resent my speaking?” he said. Have I offended 
you ? 

“Oh, no, no. You have honored me too much but you 
have spoken too late.” 

“Too late, Madge? Too late? Surely ” 

“Yes, too late,” and the pent-up tears welled over and 
rolled down her cheeks. “If you had said this to me sooner 
things might have been different. I do not know. But not 
now; not now.” v 

“Then you do care for me a ’little?” he questioned, eager- 

iy- 

“Please do not ask me,” she pleaded, “and yet you have a 
right to know. I could have cared for you once very much, 
but that day is over and gone.” 

“What, have you grown to despise me? Oh, Madge, what 
have I done?” 

“No, no, you have done nothing. I honor you very much, 
I shall always do so. But you must not speak to me of love.” 

“Why not?” he questioned, earnestly. “Surely a man has 
a right to tell a woman that he loves her.” 

“But she may not have the right to listen,” was the quick 
reply. “I have no right to listen to you.” 

“But why?” he demanded, trying in vain to take her hand. 

“I cannot tell you now,” she said, lifting her brimming 
eyes to his. “Some day, perhaps, you shall know.” 

“But is there no hope for me?” he pleaded. 

“I am afraid there is no hope for either of us. Now let 
us say good-bye here and try to forget.” 

But Ernest Everett refused to say good-bye. With all a 
lover’s passionate eloquence he pleaded his cause, and wrung 
from Madge’s lips the confession that she loved him still, but 
beyond that she could not go. 


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“So, it can never be,” she said again and again, and when 
they returned from their ramble they walked silently and with 
downcast heads. 

Madge’s heart was in a strange-tumult during the rest of 
the day. She hardly knew which predominated in her after- 
noon’s experience — the sweet or the bitter. It was terribly 
painful to have to say “no” to the young minister’s appeal, 
but it was infinitely sweet to be told with passionate entreaty 
that he loved her with all the love of his heart. 

Madge did not see Ernest Everett again during that visit. 
She looked out for him the next day, but he kept very persis- 
tently out of sight. He had evidently taken her word as final. 

She looked at all the windows of the house as she and 
Monica drove past on their way to the station, but he did not 
show his face. How she longed to go in and wander through 
all the rooms again and dream over once more the old days, 
but it was not to be. 

Monica was looking toward the rectory where she was told 
Rupert lay quite ill/having had a relapse. 

It was nearly dark when Madge reached Firdale, where 
she found the entire household in a state of the utmost con- 
sternation. Her father was missing. He had gone out, os- 
tensibly to business, the previous forenoon and had not re- 
turned. They had waited up for him the whole of the night, 
and as soon as it was daylight messengers had been sent in 
search of him in all directions, but up to the present every 
inquiry had been in vain. 

Madge listened without speaking a word. She knew more 
about her father’s affairs than any one else in the house. 'She 
was to be offered as a sacrifice to save him from ruin. Had 
the ruin come in time, she wondered, to save the sacrifice, or 
were the others to be sacrificed as well as herself? 

Her father was astute — cunning perhaps would be the 
proper word — also he was utterly selfish and unscrupulous. 
It was a grief to make these admissions even to herself, but 
the truth had to be faced. The old Robert Morton such as 
she remembered him in Graystone was dead. The present 
Robert Morton was devoid of principle. 

What, therefore, might his going away mean to those who 
were left? 


CHAPTEE XXXIII. 


THE END OF THE TETHER. 

X a few days the air was full of rumors of the re- 
puted doings of Eobert Morton, who had so sud- 
denly disappeared from the scene of his activities. 
Warrants were issued for his arrest on five or six 
distinct counts, and in City circles there was talk of for- 
geries on a colossal scale. 

Scarcely an hour passed but there was some fresh devel- 
opment of the case. A perfect network of fraud was un- 
earthed. The offices of Fletcher and Morton were besieged 
by an angry crowd of men and women who clamored for 
the missing financier, and who threatened to wreak their 
vengeance on the innocent clerks unless their demands were 
satisfied. 

People from remote country villages came hurrying up to 
London with panic-stricken faces, only to discover that they 
had invested their money in companies that had no existence 
except on paper. Some of the scenes that were witnessed 
were almost heart-breaking. In dozens of cases the entire 
savings of a lifetime had been swallowed up. 

What Morton had done with the money no one knew save 
a few who were in the inner circle, and who had bled their 
victim for all he was worth. There were rumors of hush- 
money, tales of blackmail, hints of the doings of aristocratic 
blacklegs, who flattered Morton with pleasant words, prom- 
ised him introductions into the highest circles, and bor- 
rowed uncounted thousands of him without security and with- 
out interest. But such rumors brought no consolation to 
the honest folk who had been swindled out of all their savings. 

And yet the fraud might have gone on for years longer, 
and Eobert Morton might have continued to flourish like 
the bay-tree, but for one circumstance. 

A new trial, as already intimated, had begn ordered into 
what was known as the Graystone Forgery Case, and the first 
day’s evidence which happened to catch Eobert Morton’s eyes 



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as he was turning the pages of his Times convinced him 
that he had played his game and lost, and without waiting 
for a further development of the trial he hurried off into the 
City, gathered together all the cash he could possibly lay 
hands on and disappeared. 

By the end of the second day it was as clear as a sun- 
beam to the learned judges that Harry Horton — or more cor- 
rectly Harry Blunt, for such his name had been proved to 
be — was absolutely innocent of the crime for which he had 
been condemned, while so strong was the presumption that 
his uncle was the real culprit, that a warrant was issued for 
Robert Morton’s arrest forthwith. The emissaries of the 
law, however, on reaching Firdale discovered that the bird 
had flown, and as he had had a good thirty hours’ start of 
them the issue of the case was, to say the least, doubtful. 

Madge had not been in the house more than a quarter 
of an hour when the police arrived on the execution of their 
mission. Poor Mrs. Morton wept and protested, and at first 
refused to let them come into the house. But she was soon 
convinced that no good could come of any such opposition, 
and after one or two more or less feeble protests she sank 
into a chair and threatened to faint. 

Dora went a stage further and gave way to violent hys- 
terics. It was not that she was so devoted to her father. 
But she was passionately fond of the gay life she was lead- 
ing. Her father’s sudden riches had opened what to her 
were the gates of Paradise. She reveled in receptions and 
“At Homes,” and dances and theaters, and all the gay and 
empty round of what society is pleased to call pleasure. And 
the thought of being turned adrift again on the sterile wastes 
of poverty was as the bitterness of death to her. Whether 
her father was innocent or guilty was a question she did not 
consider. Everything was swallowed up and lost in the fear 
that her brief day of pleasure was at an end. 

Madge alone kept her head. In a certain sense she was 
prepared for the catastrophe. She had seen it coming ever 
since her conversation with Harry months previously. The 
conviction had been forced upon her that her father was a 
hypocrite and a rogue. It was a bitter lesson for a child 
to learn; and yet because he was her father she would have 
screened him to the last, would have sacrificed herself if 


THE END OF THE TETHER. 


251 


thereby she might save him from the penalty of his sin. But 
it seemed as if it was not to be. The juggernaut of justice 
and judgment would not be satisfied until it had overtaken 
the real culprit. It might crush to death a hundred inno- 
cent people on the way, but it would not stop until the guilty 
party lay under its wheels. 

Madge faced the catastrophe with a strange feeling of stoi- ■ 
eism in her heart. For the moment it seemed to her as if 
it did not matter what happened. Turn in whatsoever direc- 
tion she might, there was the same blank outlook. It is 
true she might escape the misery and shame of marrying Sir 
George Hardwood, but instead she would have to go forth 
into the world bearing the shame of her father, go forth to 
poverty, perhaps to want, shunned by all respectable people 
because of her father’s sin. 

Woman-like, she carried this view of the case to its far- 
thest extreme. She fancied that even Ernest Everett would 
despise her when he discovered what a criminal her father 
was, and that if he ever smiled upon her again it would be 
in pity and not in love. 

The distress of her mother and Dora, however, left her 
little time to think of her own misery. For their sakes she 
felt she must be brave if not for her own. 

The police soon satisfied themselves that Robert Morton 
was not in hiding anywhere about the place, and after apolo- 
gizing for any trouble they had caused quietly took their de- 
parture. 

“And what are we to do now?” Dora said in gasps, star- 
ing first at her mother and then at Madge. 

“Fm sure I don’t know,” Mrs. Morton answered. “I 
suppose we mus wait till your father turns up again.” 

“Then we may wait till doomsday, for he knows a, trick 
worth two of that.” 

“Hush, Dora, how dare you say such a thing!” 

“How dare I? Do you think he would clear out without 
a very good reason? Father isn’t a fool, whatever else he 
may be.” 

“Dora, I won’t listen to such words,” her mother said, 
angrily. 

“Very good. You can play the ostrich, and bury your 
head in the sand if you like,” Dora answered defiantly. 


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“I think we had better go to bed and get what rest and 
sleep we can / 7 Madge interposed' at this point. 

“I think yon are right / 7 Dora answered, drying her eyes; 
“the chances are that to-morrow night we shall not have a 
bed to sleep on . 77 

“How silly you are, Dora,” her mother answered, pettishly. 
“If your father has run away he must have left heaps of 
money behind him, for he was as rich as Crusoe.” 

“I suppose you mean Cresus?” Dora said, bitingly. 

“I said what I mean, so don 7 t be impertinent / 7 Mrs. Mor- 
ton answered with energy. 

“Oh, please don’t let us quarrel,” Madge pleaded, the tears 
gathering suddenly in her eyes. “We shall need all our 
strength and all our patience in the days to come.” 

“Oh, you’ll be all right / 7 Dora answered, bitterly. “As 
Lady Hardwood you’ll be able to snap your fingers at every- 
body.” 

“I shall never be Lady Hardwood,” Madge answered, 
coldly. 

“Never?” her mother cried, looking up. 

“I suppose you think,” Dora interposed, “that after this 
scandal Sir George will cry off.” 

“I don’t care what he does,” Madge answered. “When 
I promised to marry him it was to save father from ruin. As 
I am-unable to do that the contract is at an end.” 

“I don’t fancy he will think so,” Dora answered, with a 
pout, “and as for the scandal that won’t make any difference 
to him. The only difference between him and father is that 
he has not been found out.” 

“And do you think if I believed that I would marry him?” 
Madge asked, with flashing eyes. 

“Why not? Nobody’s honest nowadays if he has the 
chance of being anything else.” 

“Hush, Dora. You surely don’t know what you are say- 
ing.” 

“Don’t I? You should have heard them talking at Lady 
Dashgate’s the other night. Everybody plays for his own 
hand in these times.” 

“If that’s the kind of talk you hear at Lady Dashgate’s 
it’s a pity you go there so often,” Madge said, with rising 
color, 


THE END OF THE TETHER . 


253 


“Oh, yon are what Sir Geoffrey Dashgate would call a 
little Puritan, and he’s right, .too,” and Dora walked out of 
the room. 

Sir George Hardwood did not call for a full fortnight, 
and when he did,, so he assumed a very different air from his 
wont. He appeared to be as passionately in love with Madge 
as ever. But it was not love he talked at the outset, but 
business. 

It had been a time of terrible strain to Madge. She never 
knew what any hour might bring forth. Such news as ap- 
peared in the papers was often meaningless to her. The only 
thing that seemed clear was that her father was a bankrupt 
and a rogue. But whether anything could be gathered out of 
the wreck for the family no one seemed to know. 

She was rather relieved than otherwise when Sir George 
.put in an appearance at Firdale. He at least would be able 
to give some reliable information, for he knew more about 
her father’s affairs than any one else. 

When, therefore, he began to talk business Madge was 
only too glad to listen. 

“I am dreadfully sorry for you,” he said, wiping his bald 
head, “dreadfully sorry,” and he dropped suddenly into an 
easy chair. “I knew of course that your father was shaky 
financially, but — ” and he began to wipe his head again with- 
out finishing the sentence. 

“Will there be anything ever when the creditors are 
paid?” Madge asked, timidly. 

“Anything over?” and he gave a low laugh. “Well, no; 
I don’t think there will be anything over.” 

Madge was quick to notice his tone, and the hot blood 
mounted to the roots of her hair. 

“You mean that we shall be destitute?” she questioned. 

“I did not say that,” he answered. “From your father 
you will get nothing, it is true. But you have friends — - 
friends who will not forsake you — friends who will ' be only 
too happy to see you surrounded by every comfort.” 

Madge looked at him inquiringly but did not reply. 

“Of course, as the old adage says, ‘Circumstances alter 
cases/ ” he went on. “It is very painful for you to see your 
father’s name bandied about in the papers and all that — - 
painful for you and for others. Of course you can’t help; 


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it. You are not to blame, and yet the laws of what we call 
society are very strict. You don't hold just the same posi- 
tion that you did before." 

“I quite understand/' Madge answered, coldly, wonder- 
ing what was coming next. 

"Nevertheless, I will make it my supreme care to look 
well after you and yours. Your mother and Dora and Bob 
shall have everything they can reasonably desire, and if what 
has happened will not allow you to bear my name — ■" 

But he never finished the sentence. Madge 'sprang to 
her feet white with passion and ran and threw open the door. 
"Be gone/' she gasped; "leave this house at once." 

He rose slowly to his feet and looked at her insolently. 

"Oh, you need not put on airs," he said, "you cannot 
afford it." 

"Will you leave this house this moment?" she almost 
screamed. 

"Why should I? It is my house," he went on. "I hold 
you all between my finger and thumb. You fall in with my 
•wishes or there's beggary for all of you." 

"Beggary a thousand times or death," she cried, "but 
go this moment or I’ll have the police fetched." 

He walked slowly past her out of the house, muttering 
curses as he went. On the following day bailiffs came and 
took possession of Firdale. 

Madge and her mother looked at each other with despair- 
ing eyes. For them it seemed that the end of the world 
had come. Mrs. Morton had never been a woman of re- 
source. She had trusted in her husband in every emergency 
of life, and now that she had no longer his arm to lean 
upon she felt utterly adrift and helpless. 

"What can we do, Madge?" she cried, pitifully; "I have 
spent all the ready money I had, and — and — ■" and her voice 
ended in a sob. 

"There's the workhouse for us when all else fails," Madge 
answered, with a touch of bitterness in her tone. 

"You can go to the workhouse if you like," Dora answered, 
coming into the room at that moment and overhearing 
Madge's remark. "But I prefer something different," and 
with a toss of her pretty head she marched out of the room 
again. 


THE END OF THE TETHER. 


255 


“We can’t stay here that’s certain/’ Mrs. Morton said 
after a long pause, looking at Madge with dry eyes. “I had 
hoped Sir George would have done something for us.” 

“Never mention that man’s name in my hearing again* 
mother,” Madge answered, turning away her head to hide 
the angry blushes that swept over her face. 

“Never mention — surely, Madge — ” 

“Hush, mother. Some day, perhaps, I may be able to 
bring myself to tell you, but not now.” 

“But — but — ” 

“No, as you love me drop the subject. He is a bad man; 
let that suffice for the present.” 

“But what is to become of us?” 

“Heaven only knows. Perhaps I shall be able to teach 
music again, but anything will be better than the life we 
have been living here.” 

“Better, Madge, and in this beautiful house?” 

“Have you enjoyed it? Oh, mother! For one bit of 
empty grandeur think of the price we have had .to pay. We 
have lost everything worth possessing. Oh, if these last 
four years could be blotted out, and we could be as we used 
to be in dear old Graystone!” 

Mrs. Morton sighed, and the look of trouble deepened 
in her eyes. 

“I believe you think your father has done wrong,” she 
said, at length, reproachfully. “But I shall never doubt him. 
He has been sinned against, and that’s the cause of the trou- 
ble. Some day he’ll come back and. set all things right. Oh, 
your father is a very clever man!” 

Madge looked at her mother but did not reply. She only 
wished she had the same faith. Alas! she knew more than 
her mother did. 

“If ignorance is bliss,” she reflected, “I will not enlighten 
her. Better she should never know.” 

So in this way with scraps of conversation now and then, 
they spent their last day at Firdale, and wondered what the 
morrow would bring them. 


Chapter xxxiv. 


TIME AND CHANGE. 

OXICA was so engrossed in her philanthropic 
schemes that she had no time to read the news- 
papers, and so knew nothing of what was happen- 
ing in. the home of the Mortons. She did wonder 
that Madge, after their journey to Gfraystone, did not call to 
see her, but concluded that she had her own work to do, and 
that she would put in an appearance sooner or later. 

Monica had settled the question as to her place of resi- 
dence. Rightly or wrongly she had come to the conclusion 
that she could do just as much good living in Mayfair as in 
Whitechapel. She did not feel called upon to sacrifice all 
pleasant things because some people were doomed to live in 
poverty and squalor and others elected to do so. Because all 
could not afford large houses, and rich tapestries, and soft 
carpets, and rare pictures she did not see why none should 
have them. 

She did not profess to be a saint or a martyr. If the 
truth must be told she wanted to be neither. But she did 
want to fill up her time in some useful way, and when once 
she entered upon her work she grew interested in it. She 
would say to herself sometimes that there was no virtue in 
the work she was doing, that she did it because she liked 
it. It was her way of enjoying herself. Some women found 
pleasure in dressing themselves, and some in dressing dogs, 
and some in making calls, and some in dinner parties and 
theaters. She found pleasure in giving pleasure to others, 
in seeing the faces brighten of those whose life had been 
full of pain and sadness. 

About this time Brynwild fell empty — her early home, 
the house In which her father had died. And as no fresh 
tenant was forthcoming at the time she conceived the idea 
of turning it into a convalescent home for poor, hard-work- 
ing people who needed a few weeks’ fresh air after coming 
out of the hospitals. 



TIME AND CHANGE. 


257 


She had seen how working men coming out of the hospi- 
tals had gone back to their labor all too soon, and how many 
a useful life had been needlessly shortened through lack' of 
change and fresh air at the right time. 

"It will do splendidly,” she said to herself, with enthu- 
siasm. “And Fm sure the place could not be put to better 
use.” And she hurried off down into Buckinghamshire to 
put her plans into execution with the least possible delay. 

“What I shall find most difficulty in getting,” she reflect- 
ed, as she journeyed homeward by train, “is a young and ac- 
tive housekeeper who will put her heart into the work and 
feel as interested as I do.” 

This question occupied her thoughts all the evening and 
far on into the night. She knew of no one that would just 
answer her purpose. Of course, she could advertise and 
would get doubtless hundreds of applications. But she 
would rather not have an entire stranger if she could help it. 

“Fll go and see Madge Morton in the morning,” she said 
to herself at length. “She knows lots of people. I wonder 
why she hasn’t called.” 

And having settled to call at Firdale in the morning she 
quickly dropped off to sleep. 

Madge had only just got downstairs when Monica called. 
She was pale and hollow-eyed, for she had scarcely slept for 
the night. 

“Why, what is the matter with you?” Monica cried in 
astonishment; “you look quite ill.” 

“Matter,” said Madge, with a rush of tears to her eyes. 
“Oh, everything is the matter. Have you not heard?” 

“I have heard nothing,” Monica replied; “what is it?” 

Madge dropped into a chair and in a few minutes had 
told everything. 

For awhile after silence, fell between the two girls. In 
presence of such a calamity Monica felt dumb. She had no 
words of comfort for such grief as this. 

“We must go from here to-day,” Madge said, breaking 
the silence. “All the servants have gone. They refused to 
stay when they knew what had happened.” 

"“But have you decided what you will do?” Monica asked. 

“Hot quite. It is so difficult to think and plan when 
everything is in confusion.” 


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“But you have some idea surely.” 

“Well, you know in the old days I used to give music les- 
sons. Of course this is not Graystone, but down in Stroud 
Green we know a good many people, and — •” 

“Pm afraid you would find that very precarious,” Monica 
interrupted. “I think I have a much better idea.” 

“Oh, ril be glad of anything in which I can earn a living 
honestly,” Madge said, eagerly. 

“If I tell you why I have called this morning,” Monica 
said, with a smile, “you will see my idea at once.” 

Madge listened with the keenest interest while Monica 
unfolded her philanthropic scheme and then broke down 
into crying. 

“Oh, it would be just lovely,” she said; “and mother and 
Dora would find plenty to do also.” 

“Yes, there would be plenty for all of you to do. Of 
course you would not necessarily have anything to do with 
the patients. There will be a proper staff of servants. The 
housekeeping itself will tax both you and your mother. Dora 
could look after the conservatory, as she is fond of flowers.” 

“Oh, it is good of you,” Madge cried in ecstasy. “I never 
dreamed of anything half so beautiful.” 

“I have given the order to Shoolbreds to furnish it 
throughout in very simple and homely fashion. It is not 
to be a hospital but a home, you understand, and you shall 
have the little western wing all to yourselves.” 

“Oh, it will he like heaven,” Madge cried; “and won’t 
mother and Dora be delighted!” 

“Don’t tell them just yet; wait till I’m gone, and that 
will save me the labor of explaining everything over again, 
don’t you see?” 

“As you wish. But I would like you to see how glad 
and thankful they will be.” 

“I’ll imagine all that,” Monica said, with a. laugh. “Now 
when do you think you can be ready to go? You see some 
of the furniture was sent down yesterday, and I have only 
the old gardener and his wife there at present. I expect in 
a month everything will be in apple-pie order, and by Christ- 
mas I hope it will be full of guests.” 

“Oh, we can go to-day if necessary,” Madge said, the 
color coming back to her cheeks. 


TIME AND CHANGE. 


259 


“I’m afraid you would find no place to lay your head in 
if you did,” Monica replied, “but you must come to my house 
for a couple of days, and by that time Shoolbreds will have 
rigged up something for you, and then you will be able to 
superintend the rest.” 

“Oh, you are good,” Madge cried again. “Then I shall 
see you in Bayswater this afternoon.” 

“Yes, we will all be there,” and when Monica had disap- 
peared down the drive she ran upstairs in search of her moth- 
er and Dora. 

.Mrs. Morton listened to the news with every manifesta- 
tion of thankfulness and delight. She had been sitting on 
the bed all the morning crying and wringing her hands, and 
wondering if her misery would ever come to an end. And 
now when the cloud was lifted, and lifted in such an unex- 
pected way, she felt as if she could scarcely contain herself. 

“Let’s go and tell Dora at once,” she cried, and she rushed 
off to Dora’s room followed by Madge. 

But Dora’s room was empty. 

“I expect she is in the kitchen trying to get breakfast 
ready,” Madge said, with a laugh. 

“That’s hardly like Dora,” was the grave reply. Then her 
eye fell upon a letter on the dressing-table. 

“Mother and Madge,” were the words outside the envel- 
ope. Instantly Mrs. Morton tore it open and began to read, 
while a look of alarm came into her eyes and swept over her 
face. , 

“What is it, mother?” Madge asked, anxiously. 

“Dora seems to have got a situation of some kind,” Mrs. 
Morton answered, slowly. “1 can’t quite make it out. But 
read it for yourself.” 

Madge took the letter and began to read, and her face 
grew very white as she did so. 

“Dear Mother and Madge” [the letter began], “I did not tell you 
before starting, for I thought you might make a fuss and raise all 
kinds of objections. So I have left this note behind to explain things. 
I’m too fpnd of our present mode of living to go back to the old ways. 
I should simply die. You know I hate poverty and all that it means, 
and Sir George says there is no reason why I should be poor any more. 
I’m to be companion to a lady and have a very big salary, and we shall 
travel to all the gay places in Europe, and have no end of a good time. 
So don’t worry about me. I’ll write again after awhile. Yours affec- 
tionately, “Dora.” 


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“Poor Dora/* Madge sighed, as she laid down the letter, 
and her hands clenched involuntarily. She feared the worst, 
hut she said nothing to her mother. 

A few minutes later she questioned the bailiffs who were 
walking in the garden. 

Yes, they had seen the lady go away. She went very early 
in the morning. She drove away in Sir George Hardwood’s 
carriage. They felt sure the carriage was Sir George Hard- 
wood’s. 

“I wish she had been taken away in her coffin,” Madge 
said to herself, and hot, bitter tears welled up into her eyes 
and fell upon her cheeks. It seemed as though, her father’s 
sin took toll in all directions, and there was no limit to the 
price that had to he paid. 

It was with no feeling of regret that later in the day she 
said good-bye to Firdale. The place had never seemed like 
home to her. Its grandeur jarred upon her feelings; it was 
a vulgar symbol of their humiliation and shame. 

Hot so, however, with poor Mrs. Morton. She had been 
so proud of her momentary greatness, of her husband’s clev- 
erness in lifting her to such a giddy height. She had aped 
the rich and fashionable with so much satisfaction to herself, 
and played the grand lady as she believed with such conspicu- 
ous success, that to leave it all behind her and he a mere no- 
body, to go hack into obscurity again and comparative pov- 
erty, was like tearing her heart out. 

She almost envied Dora. Dora was clever;, she had cul- 
tivated the society of the big people — what Madge would 
never do; she had made friends of the rich and titled — had 
dropped into their ways. How she was getting her reward. 

Mrs. Morton’s eyes were red with weeping when she left 
the house. There was no carriage waiting for her now with 
a pair of spanking bays — only a common growler, with their 
few boxes of clothes piled on the top. 

“It’s a terrible come-down Madge,” she. said, as she 
squeezed herself into the cab. “Pm sure your dear father 
has been cruelly wronged, or it would never have come to 
this.” 

“We will not discuss that question, mother,” Madge said, 
quietly. “I think we ought to be only too grateful that we 
have a place to go to.” 


TIME AND CHANGE. 


261 


“Oil, I am thankful, I can't tell you how thankful. Nev- 
ertheless, I hope some (lay we shall be able to lift our heads 
again as high as anybody/’ 

So they drove away from Firdale — the place of triumph 
to one, of humiliation to the other. 

By the end of the week they were settled at Bryn wild, 
where they found so much to do that they had little time 
to brood over the past. Madge was delighted to be back 
in the country again, and though it was autumn time, with 
signs of decay and swiftly approaching winter on every hand, 
yet in her eyes it was very beautiful still. 

The house — a large, rambling building — stood on the 
slope of a low hill, and commanded a fine view of rich, undu- 
lating country. The grounds, though not large, were well 
laid out, and "beyond the ring fence were grazing farms that 
looked like an extensive park. 

Monica came down every week-end to see how things were 
progressing, and to superintend matters generally. She had 
developed wonderfully during the last few months. All the 
latent energy of her nature seemed to have leaped into life. 
At Graystone every faculty of her nature was in danger of 
being atrophied from lack of use. She was like a caged bird. 
She never used her wings, for there was no room to fly. She 
never sang, for there was no one to sing to. Her brain lay 
fallow, for there was nothing to think about. 

Now everything was changed. She was thrown on her 
own resources. Her guardian no longer interfered with her, 
rarely came to see her. He had confidence in her judgment 
in the main, and quite approved of her shaping her own 
course in life. 

Op. the whole Monica was very happy; her work filled her 
thoughts completely. Now and then she found herself 
dreaming over the past and wondering what had become of 
the companion of her girlhood. 

It seemed strange that Harry should hide himself so 
completely, especially since his character had been cleared 
from every stain, and three of the most eminent judges in 
the land had pronounced him innocent of the crime for 
which he had been imprisoned. 

Surely he could not know that this had happened, or he 
would have made himself known to his friends, and if he did 


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not know what could such ignorance mean? There seemed 
three possible explanations. In the first place, he might 
have left the country and never saw an English paper. In 
the second place, he might have sunk so low in the social 
scale that newspapers were luxuries he never indulged in. 
In the third place he might be dead, in which case it would 
not matter whether men praised or blamed. And Monica 
would dash away the willful tears that gathered suddenly in 
her eyes. 

In spite of time and change she loved him still. He had 
been her girlish ideal, her brave and faithful knight, and 
though she never saw his face again she knew she would 
cherish his memory to the last. 

Rupert Grant, and the curious episode in her life asso- 
ciated with his name, were gradually fading from her mem- 
ory. From all she could gather he spent the largest por- 
tion of his time at Graystone, and appeared to be develop- 
ing into a gloomy hypochondriac. 

But Monica never thought of Rupert without feeling 
thankful for the timely interposition of Dorothy Fielding. 
Indeed, the narrowness of her escape made her shudder. 

“I am sure I was not in my right mind when I promised 
to marry him ” she would sometimes say to herself. “I was 
morbid and low-spirited and depressed. I imagined all kinds 
of things, and then my heart was so heavy that I didn’t care 
what became of me. Oh, what a deliverance it was!” 

But it was on very rare occasions now that her thoughts 
reverted to this subject; she had too many other things to fill 
her mind. 

So the weeks slipped away and grew into months. Bryn- 
wild had been completely metamorphosed, and was now full 
of thankful people, who found in the change a new lease of 
life. 

Monica carefully examined all the applications that came, 
and selected what she deemed the most deserving cases. Gen- 
erally speaking they were industrious working men, who had 
met with bad accidents, and who came after weary months 
of suffering in city hospitals. 

To such people the sight of the country was like a glimpse 
of heaven, and a month at Brynwild did them more good than 
all the physic they had so uncomplainingly taken, 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


life’s little day. 

ORD MENHERIOT had nearly given up all hope 
of finding his son, and was painfully depressed in 
consequence. He blamed himself now for not ac- 
knowledging him as soon as he discovered the re- 
lationship; blamed himself for not meeting him when he 
came out of prison; blamed himself for allowing the trial 
to proceed on the lines it did; blamed himself for a dozen 
things that he could not have helped had he tried. 

He tried to atone for his past hesitancy and neglect by 
sparing neither time nor money in his efforts to discover 
Harry’s whereabouts, but all his labor ended in failure. 

Rupert Grant might have enlightened him very consid- 
erably on the question had he felt disposed. But though Ru- 
pert lived in daily and nightly torment on account of what 
he had done, he never dreamed of easing his conscience by 
making a full confession. And yet in reality Rupert was trou- 
bled not so much on account of what had happened to Harry 
as on account of the fact that Blokes was alive and might 
at any time make public all the facts. 

The persistent reappearance of Blokes kept him in per- 
petual ^torment. Blokes tracked him with all the certainty 
of a bloodhound, and was disposed under no circumstances 
to show the least consideration for his feelings. 

How and then he discussed with himself the probabilities 
of what would happen if Blokes did his worst. What could 
he prove? How many people had seen him inside the fence 
the night before the accident? In which way could he be 
connected with the fatality of the following day? 

Looking at the matter broadly, he could not see that he 
had anything to fear. And yet he was afraid to face the 
issue. Even to be remotely mixed up in such a case would 
be very awkward. If it once got into the law courts, every- 
thing would be sifted to the bottom. Harry’s relationship to 
the Earl would be made clear, and of course his interest in 



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trying to get Harry out of the way. It wanted but a single 
word to be spoken, and all the rest would follow inevitably. 

He might not be convicted of murder or even of man- 
slaughter. He might be acquitted, and yet many people 
would have their doubts still. These were awkward presump- 
tions that would inevitably tell against him. 

So he deemed it wiser to bear the ill of Blokes’s continual 
reappearance, than to fly to others that might prove a hun- 
dred times worse. 

He rarely went across to the Hall now, though he spent 
considerable time at the vicarage. There was not that free- 
dom between him and the Earl that once characterized their 
intercourse. In fact, he always felt uneasy in the Earl’s 
presence. The keen grey eyes of his kinsman seemed to 
burn into his very soul, and he sometimes wondered if he 
guessed the terrible secret that darkened all his days. 

The Earl did not trouble himself that Rupert came so 
rarely to see him. They had never possessed much in com- 
mon, and he w r as not at all surprised, after all that had hap- 
pened, that Rupert avoided him. 

“And yet I have done the best I could for him,” he would 
reflect sometimes. “I even did my best to promote a mar- 
riage between him and Monica after I knew I had a son 
of my ow r n. I was foolish perhaps, but the young dog has 
never been encouraged to earn his own living.” 

As the winter wore slowly away the Earl got terribly de- 
pressed. Graystone Hall seemed like a prison to him. All 
the light and sunshine had gone out of it since Monica went 
away. His wife was worse than dead. Her lucid moments 
got fewer and fewer. The west wing of the house was wholly 
given up to her and her attendants. 

“We are all of us fools,” he would sometimes say to him- 
self. “We try to improve on Nature’s order. We follow cus- 
tom rather than truth, and account social position of more 
value than anything else. Ah me, I was happiest when I 
defied society, and played the fool in *the eyes of the world, 
and followed my own heart, and married the girl I loved. 
I wonder if she had lived what would have happened!” 

The Earl, never pined so much for company as he did 
during those dreary winter days, never longed so ardently for 
some news of Harry. But every day brought the same pang 


LIFE’S LITTLE DAY < 


265 


of disappointment. Ho trace of the young man could he 
found. Up to a certain point his steps could be followed 
easily enough, and the Earl learned with a hitter pang how 
bravely he had struggled and how cruel the world had been 
to him. 

But all at once he disappeared, and no young man hearing 
his name could be heard of in any direction. Inquiries Were 
set on foot in all the great centers throughout the country, 
in Glasgow, Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham, Bris- 
tol, hut all to no purpose. 

Every day the Earl kept hoping that some clue would 
he discovered, that among the myriads of toilers who 
daily strive for their bread, he would appear, hut it was not 
to be. 

So the days wore away until Christmas dawned, and then 
unexpectedly and without a struggle Lady Menheriot passed 
out of life. The vicar and his son heard the news with con- 
sternation. It was a new and unexpected turn in the wheel 
of fortune, and might mean the destruction of all their hopes 
and expectations. Lord Menheriot might marry again and 
have sons and daughters. 

Rupert contemplated the possibility in sheer agony and 
terror of mind. After all his scheming and plotting and 
sinning, his expectations might he cut off at the last. 

On the last day of the old year he was at his wits’ end 
and almost demented. He was badly in want of money, hut 
how to raise another loan he did not know. While he was 
prospective heir of Graystone it was not difficult, hut now 
that Lady Menheriot was dead, and there was a possibility 
that the Earl might marry again, the entire condition of 
things was changed. 

Moreover, he could not himself ignore that possibility. 
During the forenoon he and his father had talked the matter 
over, and the more they discussed it the more clearly they 
saw that the possibility amounted almost to a probability. 

“You see, Rupert,” said the vicar, “that for the last dozen 
years he has had no real pleasure in his home, for all that 
time his wufe has been helpless and practically imbecile.” 

“But she needn’t have died,” snarled Rupert. “Every- 
body thought she would live till she was ninety.” 

“But she has died,” said the vicar; “that is the point we 


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have to consider, and now that Monica is out of the way 
what’s to hinder him from marrying again?” 

"It’ll be a beastly shame if he does,” growled Rupert. 

"No, no. Don’t use inelegant words even though you 
may be cross,” the vicar said, mildly. "Of course he may 
not marry again. He may not. Let us hope he will not.” 

"Rut there’s always the possibility hanging over one’s 
head,” Rupert said, dolefully. 

"I know it my son, and it comes hard on you. For my- 
self it does not matter. I am getting an elderly man, and 
my modest living is practically assured me to the end.” 

"I wish mine was,” Rupert growled. "I’m in a chronic 
state of hardupness.” 

"Well, you must try again with the new year,” his father 
said, encouragingly. "There must- surely be an opening for 
you soon. I really don’t think the Home Secretary has 
treated you fairly. A number of crumbs have fallen from 
his table lately.” 

"There are always so many hungry mouths about,” Ru- 
pert growled. 

"Nevertheless, it is quite time your claims were consid- 
ered,” and the vicar retired to his study. 

Rupert kept indoors while the daylight lasted, and brooded 
over the troubles and hardships of his life. He was almost 
afraid to venture forth in the daylight lest Blokes should be 
anywhere about. He had not seen that gentleman for over 
a fortnight, and was in mortal dread lest at any moment he 
should reappear upon the scene. 

Blokes had become a perfect nightmare to him, and he 
often wondered if there was no possible way of shaking him 
off. He did not wish to be guilty of another crime, but he 
seriously thought that there might be times in one’s life 
when a crime was justifiable. 

"The leech will suck me to death,” he muttered to him- 
self, "unless I can get rid of him and that pretty quickly.” 

Yet he knew very well that strength for strength and 
cunning for cunning Blokes was more than a match for him. 

It was a cold, raw day, with a damp, complaining wind 
that seemed to find its way into one’s bones. Rupert sat 
with his feet on a corner of the fender staring out of the 
window. He felt that life was not worth living, and that 


LIFE'S LITTLE DAY. 


267 


he wouldn’t be sorry when it came to an end. He had no 
mission, no purpose, no ambition in any true sense of that 
word. He had been brought up mainly to do nothing and 
he had done it, and was weary of it. 

At best he was but a trifler without earnestness or sin- 
cerity. He had trifled with love and with life and with for- 
tune. He had plotted for ignoble and unworthy ends, but 
even his plots were clumsy and ill-considered. He had never 
done anything well and cleverly — not even evil. And now 
on the last day of another year life’s outlook was darker than 
ever it had been before. 

When it -grew dark he put on his hat and overcoat and 
went for a long walk. The wind had sprung up with the 
setting of the sun, and was now surging through the tree3 
with a. dull, monotonous roar. 

In the village street he paused for a few minutes outside 
the Congregational church. The schoolroom underneath was 
lighted up. A tea-meeting was in progress, and through the 
open door came the sound of singing 

“Be present at our table. Lord.” 

' The familiar words touched his heart with a strange feel- 
ing of tenderness. 

“Those poor folk seem happy enough,” he muttered, 
“though heaven knows why I should call them poor. I only 
wish I was as rich.” 

A few minutes later Graystone was behind him, and with 
the wind at his back he tramped briskly on resolving to make 
a circuit of five or six miles before he reached home for din- 
ner. 

Once or twice he paused, for in lulls of the wind he fan- 
cied he heard footsteps behind him; but on looking back 
he could see nothing — the lonely road seemed quite deserted. 

“I do believe I’m growing nervous,” he muttered to him- 
self. “I’m everlastingly imagining things. Ah! there are 
those footfalls again, but they are in the field this time — 
some shepherd or farmer most likely. What an idiot I am.” 

And he stopped and lighted a cigar, then walked on a 
little more slowly. 

Half a mile further on the road took a turn to the right, 
and was carried, five hundred yards further on, over a deep 
railway cutting by a long bridge with low parapets. 


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At the turn of the road a man stepped suddenly out of the 
shadow of the hedge and confronted him with- a muttered 
oath. Eupert tried to hurry past. 

“No, guv’nor,” said the man, “yer i’nt goin 7 to eseipe me 
thet wey.” 

“But why are you everlastingly dogging my steps ? 77 Ru- 
pert said, angrily. “The thing is becoming intolerable . 77 

“Fm sorry yer look at it in thet light. I thought I were 
lettin 7 yer off pertickler easy . 77 

“Easy, man; you are like a leech or a thousand leeches 
rolled into one . 77 

“Eve not the ackwinetince of them things , 77 Blokes an- 
swered, insolently. “But the truth is I’m hawd up, guv’nor, 
and I want a small sum on account . 77 

“You are not nearly as hard up as I am . 77 

“No! Well, thet is misfo 7 tunite. But in any kise I must 
have a draw to-night . 77 

“But how are you to get it ? 77 

“I will walk home with yer and pay my respec’s to yer 
pairent or to yer relition at the 7 all . 77 

“I don’t see how that will help you , 77 Eupert said angrily. 

“But I do , 77 was the reply. “If you’ve no money with 
yer. I’ve no doubt yer respected par or mar will “hip yer 
out . 77 

“Well, how much do you want?” Eupert asked, desper- 
ately. 

“Well, I carnt do with less than a fiver, guv’nor . 77 

“Do you mean five pounds?” 

“Thet is what I means to a dot.” 

They were walking side by side across the bridge, and 
Rupert stopped suddenly. A feeling of utter despair gripped 
at his heart. 

Along the line an express train was advancing at full 
speed. 

“You must be content with less than five,” Rupert said, 
pleadingly. 

“By ’evins no; I’ll see yer swing first,” was the defiant 
answer. 

“And I will swing first,” Rupert answered in a sudden 
blaze of passion, and he seized Blokes in a moment and flung 
him over the parapet in front of the advancing train. 


LIFE'U little day. 


269 


But swift as a flash Blokes thrust his hand inside Rupert’s 
collar, and held fast with the grip of death. 

For several moments he hung suspended high above the 
railway track. Rupert tried to draw him back again but he 
had not strength; besides, Blokes’s bony knuckles were press- 
ing into his neck and throttling him. He could hear the 
panting express drawing nearer and nearer. Blokes was 
cursing and screaming and pleading to be drawn back. He 
made a desperate effort to get his breath and pull back the 
suspended man, but it was too late; then he tried to grip 
the wall as he felt himself being drawn over the parapet. 
His eyes were starting out of their sockets. A noise as of 
a thousand thunders was in his ears; then the world seemed 
to slip suddenly from beneath his feet, a moment of relief 
followed as they dropped into space, and then — then the 
great mystery that no man living can unravel. 

The great engine caught them both as they fell with an 
impact that made the drivers shudder. 

The brakes wen? immediately put on, and the express train 
brought to a standstill at Graystone Station, where the driv- 
ers told their story. 

In a few minutes a search party was got together, and not 
long after the two bodies were found one on each side of 
the track, but neither was recognizable except by the clothes. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 

T was a* bright, warm morning in February, so bright 
indeed that one was almost tempted to think the 
winter had taken its departure once more, and that 
spring-time lay full upon the land. 

Monica was busy with her letters, and her guardian sat 
in an easy chair by the window reading The Times. Since 
the death of his wife Lord Menheriot had spent a good deal 
of his time in London, and every now and then he ran out 
to Bayswater to have a look at Monica, whom he regarded 
almost inr the light of a daughter. 

Monica had two beds vacant at Brynwild for which she 
had a dozen applicants from almost as many hospitals, and 
she was wondering now which two out of the dozen she should 
select, or, more correctly, which ten out of the remaining 
eleven she would reject, for one of the two cases she had 
decided on without a moment’s hesitation. 

It was her aim to select only the most worthy and press- 
ing cases that were brought under her notice. Brynwild was 
not the only convalescent home in the land by very many, 
nevertheless it offered many special advantages, and those 
who came she prided herself were picked cases — cases that 
deserved special help and treatment. 

“I shall select this in any case,” she said, turning toward 
the Earl and handing him a letter. 

He dropped his paper at once and took the letter from 
her hand. It was a somewhat lengthy epistle, and was signed 
by the matron of one of the large hospitals. 

It stated that the person on whose behalf application was 
made was a. young day laborer of some twenty-five or twenty- 
six years of age; that six months previously he fell off a scaf- 
fold (that clearly had been tampered with by some one), and 
ha'd been picked up for dead and conveyed to the mortuary; 
that an hour later it was discovered that he still breathed, 
when of course he was conveyed to the hospital; that for the 



THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 


271 


space of a month he remained absolutely unconscious; that 
for another month he had no recollection of who he was or 
where he came from. But in addition to the injury to his 
head both his arms were broken, one of them in two places, 
and that three or four of his ribs were also fractured, in 
addition to other internal injuries. 

The doctors regarded him as an interesting case, but had 
absolutely no hope of his recovery. Surgical skill, however, 
had wrought what at one time would have been called a 
miracle. ITe was now a sound man again. All that he 
needed was a month or two in the country with plenty of 
fresh air, exercise, and nourishing food. 

“I shall be curious to see a young man who has gone 
through so much and come out alive ,' 77 Monica said, as her 
guardian handed her back the letter. 

“I should like to see him myself / 7 the Earl answered, lan- 
guidly. “I think I will run down next week and have a 
look at your asylum / 7 

“Do, Guardy. What day will you come ? 77 

“Let me see, to-day is Tuesday, isn’t it? Say this day 
week . 77 

“That will do splendidly. I shall go down myself on 
Friday and will remain till you come . 77 

“I confess I am curious to see the ins and outs of your 
work / 7 he said, with a smile 

“Why curious ? 77 

“Well, at one time I thought you would have been the 
last woman in the world to embark on any such undertaking. 
On the whole, however, I think you are doing the right 
thing . 77 

“On the whole, however ! 77 she laughed. “How qualified ! 77 

“I’m afraid I’m not an enthusiast on any subject / 7 he 
said, with a pathetic smile. 

“I’m afraid you are not, Guardy. But then 77 

“Then what, Monica ? 77 

“Oh, well, life has brought you a lot of worry I know, and 
worry cools most enthusiasms . 77 

“It is a mistake, Monica, not to have a definite aim in life. 
To be born with expectations is a misfortune. It was the 
curse of poor Rupert’s life . 77 

“To be born with nothing seems as great a misfortune 


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sometimes,” Monica replied. ■‘'Think of Harry Morton, or 
whatever his real name is.” 

The Earl started and flushed slightly; then answered quiet- 
ly enough, “Yes, but he was the victim of fraud and deceit. 
In any other circumstances he would have made his mark.” 

“It’s a curious world,” Monica mused. “The honest man 
is sent to jail and trampled upon when he comes out, the 
swindler runs riot in luxury.” 

“But only for a little while. Poor Morton’s triumph was 
soon over.” 

“That was a mere accident. He might have gone on for 
years swindling people, and living in pomp and splendor, had 
you not succeeded in getting a new trial for Harry. If all 
that one hears is true, it is not one rogue in twenty who gets, 
his deserts.” 

“1 am inclined to think otherwise,” the Earl said, thought- 
fully. “There seems to me no wrong-doing that does not 
bring its penalty. We may not always see it. The world can 
only judge of what is on the surface. The bitterest punish- 
ments of life are never heard of. I fancy that Morton suf- 
fered infinitely greater torment in his prosperity than he ever 
did in the days of his poverty.” 

“He’s made other people suffer torments at any rate,” 
Monica said, indignantly. 

“Ah, my child, no man pulls his house about his ears who 
does not include other people in the ruin.” 

“Yes, that seems the unrighteous part of the whole busi- 
ness. What justice or equity is there in allowing the right- 
eous to suffer for the guilty?” 

“They don’t suffer for them, Monica; they suffer with 
them because we are united in families and communities. But 
Hemesis does not stop till she overtakes the original offender.” 

“Oh; I doubt that,” Monica answered, doggedly. “The 
only good I can see in the whole sad business is that it gives 
people who are well off, and who are in danger of growing 
selfish and mean, an opportunity of getting out of their mean- 
ness and doing a little bit of good in the world.” 

“I’m afraid the apod we do is very small,” the Earl said, 
reflectively, as if to himself, and then silence fell. 

On the Friday morning Monica started for Brynwild. The 
new patient, whom she was so interested in, had arrived the 


V 


THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS , 273 

previous afternoon, but neither Madge nor her mother had 
seen him. 

So after Monica had rested herself a little she went oft on 
a voyage of exploration. The day was bright, with a crisp, 
cool air and a refreshing warmth in the sunshine. 

She found the new patient at the far end of the grounds 
walking alone. She came upon him suddenly in turning a 
corner, and both looked up with a start. The recognition 
was instantaneous. 

“Harry!” 

“Monica!” 

Monica leaned against a tree to keep herself from falling. 
A lump came into her throat which threatened to choke her. 
A mist came up before her eyes which blotted out everything. 
Then with a great surge of joy in her heart she drew herself 
together arid smiled. 

Harry was the first to speak. “I never expected to see you 
here/’ he said, slowly, and his lips trembled in spite of every 
effort to keep them still. 

“It is the unexpected that happens, Harry/’" she said in 
her old winsome way. “But now I understand your long 
silence. But why did you change your name?” 

“I had no right to the name of Morton,” he said. “And 
to tell you the truth I was not particularly proud of it. But 
how does it happen that you are down here?” 

“I am interested in this place,” she said with a smile, “and 
I visit it every now and then.” 

“You know the lady, perhaps, who owns it. It seems- 
very noble to give up a beautiful place like this for the benefit 
of the poor and suffering.” 

“I know the lady a little,” Monica answered. 

“You live in the neighborhood perhaps?” 

“Ho. I live in London ” 

“Oh, yes, of course,” he said, with averted eyes. “I was 
forgetting.” 

“Forgetting what?” 

“I sat near you one day in St. Paul’s Cathedral. Was it 
last summer or the summer before? I have almost failed to 
keep account of time. Your guardian was with you, and you 
were talking about your new house. Is your — your — hus- 
band well?” 


274 


TO PAT THE PRICE. 


“I have no husband, Harry,” she replied, with downcast 
eyes. “I could not marry Rupert Grant. It was impossible.” 

He drew a long breath and did not speak again for several 
seconds. They had reached a sunny spot against a high wall, 
and had seated themselves on a garden chair. 

“And Rupert?” he questioned at length. 

“He is dead.” 

“Dead?” 

“Yes, he died on New Year’s Eve,” and she told him all 
the story as the villagers, the engine drivers, the jurymen, and 
the witnesses had pieced it together. 

He listened with intense interest, and when she had fin- 
ished he looked her full in the face and said, “And is the name 
of the man known who was reported to have dogged his steps, 
and who fell over the bridge with him?” 

“From all that can be gathered he appears to have been 
a notorious character known under many aliases, but generally 
by the name of Blokes. But what hold he had upon Rupert, 
and why they were together, no one appears to have the 
slightest idea.” 

“It’s a tragic end,” Harry said after a long pause, and his 
eyes went wandering across the green fields that lay smiling 
in the sunshine. 

“It is terribly sad,” Monica replied. “Guardy thinks the 
vicar will never recover from the shock.” 

“And is the Earl well?” Harry asked at length. 

“Yes, very well. He seems better than he has been for 
years.” 

Then silence fell between them again. Both were think- 
ing of the old days when, as youth and maiden, they roamed 
over the green uplands of Graystone. Every now and then 
Monica glanced timidly up into his face. He was paler and 
thinner than he used to be, but she could detect no other 
change. He was just as handsome and just as clear-eyed as 
in those old happy days before that cruel shadow fell. ” 

How the tones of his voice thrilled her still. All the dor- 
mant passion of her soul seemed suddenly to flame into being. 
Neither time, nor change, nor suffering could turn her heart 
from him. He was the master musician that could touch all 
her life to music. He might be poor and nameless, but he 
was a gentleman and, in her eyes, a hero. 


THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 


275 


To him it was like a dream of heaven to he sitting again 
by her side. He wondered if it was because he had not fully 
recovered from his accident that his heart beat so tumultuous- 
ly. He scarcely dared to look at her. Her beauty was even 
more bewitching than in the old days. 

Ah! if that shadow did not lie upon his name he would 
dare to hope even now. But since in the eyes of the world 
he was a forger, and must ever remain such, he could only 
sigh over what might have been. It would be cowardly even 
to dream of such happiness. 

Monica spoke again after awhile. “The world has treated 
you very hardly, Harry,” and she lifted her eyes timidly to 
his. 

“It gives no chance to the man who is down,” he said; “I 
tried my best, God knows. But the fact that I had been in 
prison always came to the top, somehow.” 

“But how did people find out?” 

“That’s more than I can tell. I had to adopt another 
name at length.” 

“Ah, well,” she said, smiling brightly, “that is all over 
now.” 

“Oh, no,” he said, slowly and sadly. “It can never be all 
over. I’ve brought myself to face the inevitable. Once a 
jail-bird always a jail-bird.” 

“But not when you have been proved to be innocent.” 

“Proved to be innocent?” he said, questioningly. “You 
mean that there are a few people who still believe in me?” 

“Oh, no, I don’t. You surely have heard. Has no one 
told you?” 

“I do not know what you refer to,” he said. 

“Have you not seen it in the papers that there was a fresh 
trial?” 

“What fresh trial? I have seen nothing.” 

“Oh, then I’ve a wonderful piece of news for you,” and 
she told him everything. 

Harry listened like a man in a dream. It seemed alto- 
gether too good to be true. 

“Are you sure you are not unintentionally deceiving me, 
Monica?” he cried, eagerly. 

“I’m absolutely certain, Harry. Why, it has been in all 
the papers.” 


276 


TO PAT THE PRICE . 


“Oh, Monica, Monica,” and he rose to his feet and took 
her hands in his. “If — if you were only poor ” 

“I am poor,” she said, impulsively. 

He turned again and looked at her. She was most simply 
dressed in a costume of blue-serge. 

“Have you had losses?” he questioned. 

“Great losses,” she answered. 

“Then — then — oh. Monica, if I work hard and win may 
I ever dare to love you?” 

“Do you love me, Harry?” she questioned, with a world 
of tenderness shining in her liquid eyes. 

“Oh, Monica, since we were boy and girl together I have 
never done anything else. And yet I have done my best to 
forget you.” 

“Let us walk down here under the trees,” she said. “I 
have so much to say to you.” 

“I have tried to forget you also,” she said, with downcast 
eyes. “I gave up hope; you seemed utterly lost to me and to 
all else, and in my misery and despair I promised to marry 
Rupert. Guardy desired it, and I was so unhappy that I did 
not care what happened. Can you forgive me, Harry?” 

“Forgive you, Monica? I have nothing to forgive.” 

“I ought to have been true to you. I knew you loved me, 
for you told me so, and I ought never to have promised what 
I did.” 

“And you have really cared for me all the time?” he ques- 
tioned, a great light coming into his eyes. 

“Cared for you, Harry? Oh, you must have known.” 

“It seems still too good to be true,” he answered. “But 
I will work and win. I will get “called yet. And then — ” 

“And I will help you all I can,” she answered. 

They were far away from the house, shut in by clustering 
evergreens — no one could see them — no one but their Maker. 

He took her beautiful face between his thin, wasted hands, 
and looked tenderly into her sweet, liquid eyes. 

“I am glad you are poor, Monica,” he said; and then he 
stooped and kissed her. 

“I am rich now,” she answered, meeting his gaze fearlessly. 

And for answer he kissed her again and again. 

“Now, Harry,” she said, “we will go back to the house, for 
there are other surprises in store for you.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


FATHER AND SON. 

QUARTER of an hour later Harry was alone in the 
little sitting-room set apart for Madge and her 
mother, much wondering what other surprise could 
be in store for him. Monica had gone off in search 
of the usual occupants of this pleasant room. 

She found Madge in the kitchen interviewing the cook. 
Mrs. Morton was in her bedroom. 

“There’s a stranger in your room who wants to see you 
particularly/’ Monica said. “Can you spare a few minutes?” 

“Oh, yes, I am quite at liberty now,” Madge said, brightly. 

“And are you still happy in your work?” Monica ques- 
tioned, as they walked away together. 

“Very happy, indeed. I bless you every day of my life 
for finding me such a home.” 

“Hush, don’t say that. But the stranger who is waiting to 
see you, you may find very inquisitive, so I have only one re- 
quest to make, and that is that you do not let him know what 
connection I have with this place.” 

“Oh, that will not be at all difficult,” Madge said, with a 
smile. But is it some one I If now well?” 

“Yes, I think so. But you will soon be able to answer 
that question for yourself,” and Monica pushed open the sit- 
ting-room door, and allowed Madge to pass in in front of her. 

Harry rose from his chair directly the door opened. There 
was a sudden cry of joy from Madge, and the next moment 
she was locked in his arms. 

“How I think I will leave you two together for awhile,” 
Monica said with a smile; “I am sure you will have a lot to say 
to each other; meanwhile, I will go in search of your mother.” 

Poor Mrs. Morton, when she came into Harry’s presence, 
laughed and cried, and protested her husband’s innocence, 
and became quite hysterical. 

Harry did not attempt to undeceive her respecting the 
innocence of her husband. If she found any little comfort 



2?8 


TO PAY TEE PRICE. 


in the delusion, as far as lie was concerned, she was quite wel- 
come to it. 

But the greatest surprise of all was in store for Harry on 
the following Tuesday, when Lord Menheriot visited Bryn- 
wild, and not for Harry only but for Monica, and Madge and 
Mrs. Morton. 

Lord Menheriot had kept his secret well. Only to Rupert 
Grant Tad he confided the fact that the son he was in search 
of was Harry Morton, and Rupert had allowed the secret to 
die with him. 

Monica had lost all interest in. the Earl’s search. If she 
thought about the matter at all it was only to hope that he 
might be unsuccessful, for she had fully convinced herself 
that this son, if he were alive, was a clown, and a clown of the 
worst order. 

She went to the station on Tuesday morning to meet the 
train the Earl traveled by, and the weather being fine they 
walked up to the house. 

“And how is your asylum getting on?” the Earl asked, 
when they had got some little distance from the station. 

“Very well indeed, guardy. But I have an interesting bit 
of news for you.” 

“Indeed!” 

“You remember that case that I felt so interested in last 
week?” 

“The young man who fell olf the scaffold?” 

“The same. Well he turns out to he — whom do you 
think?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know.” 

“Harry Morton.” 

“Ho!” and the Earl stopped suddenly short in his walk. 

“It’s as true as you and I are here. I was never so sur- 
prised in my life.” 

“And he is at Bryn wild now?” 

“Of course he is. Where else should he be, I can tell you 
we’ve had a real reunion. Oh, it’s been like old times.” 

“And has he properly recovered?” 

“He’s just splendid. He looks pale and thin, hut he de- 
clares he never felt better in his life.” 

“He knows of course that his good name has been re- 
stored?” 


FATHER AND SON. 


279 


“He does now. I told him last Friday. Oh, it was a day 
of surprises. And what do you think?” 

“Oh, I think ever so many things,” the Earl answered, 
gravely. 

“But you’ll never think this. He does not know that I 
have any connection with Brynwild. Indeed, he thinks Eve 
lost my money and am comparatively poor.” 

“If you’ve not lost it you are spending it pretty freely,” 
the Earl answered. 

“That is what it was intended for,” Monica said, with a 
laugh. “But Harry is going to work hard to win me a posi- 
tion.” 

“To win you a position?” 

“I dare say you will be very angry. But I can’t help it. 
I’ve never cared for any one else.” 

“You mean to say that he has been making love to you?” 

“I really don’t know which started it, guardy, but that’s 
how matters stand just at present.” 

The Earl looked terribly grave- for a moment, then a smile 
broke over his face, then he stood stock still and laughed. 

“I’m glad you are not terribly angry,” Monica said, with 
a little sigh of relief. 

“Angry, my child. Ah, me, how blind I’ve been. But 
I’ll tell you a secret now. Harry is my son.” 

“Your son?” she said, stopping and seizing his hands. 
“Your son? The one you’ve been searching for so long?” 

“Th-e very same, Monica.” 

They had entered the grounds now, and for some distance 
they walked on in silence. Indeed, Monica’s feelings 
were in such a state of tumult that talking was out of the 
question. 

At length she looked up and saw Harry advancing to meet 
them. 

“Here comes your long-lost son,” she said, and her voice 
broke a little. “I will leave you together; when you want me 
I shall be in t-he drawing-room, the only room at Brynwild 
that is my own.” 

“A moment or two later the two men came face to face, 
and Monica turned and walked away. 

The Earl seemed too overcome to speak, and Harry broke 
the silence. 


280 


TO PAY TEE PRICE. 


“I have to thank you, my lord, for interesting yourself in 
my case,” he began. But the Earl quickly cut him short. 

“Hush, Harry,” he said, “I want to tell you that you are 
my son.” 

Had an earthquake opened at Harry’s feet he could not 
have been more astonished. 

Half an hour later Harry came alone into the drawing- 
room in search of Monica. 

She rose to receive him with mock seriousness and gravity. 
“So I understand you have made love to me under false pre- 
tences,” she said, “pretendig you were a poor man, I find you 
are an earl’s son. What have you to say for yourself?” 

“Nothing, fair madam,” he said in the same tone of ban- 
ter. “Absolutely nothing, save that you are guilty of the 
same misdemeanor. I made love to you believing you to be 
poor, and lo! I discover you are very rich. What extenua- 
ting circumstances can you plead?” 

“Ah, Harry,” and she came and placed her hands upon his 
shoulders and looked lovingly up into his eyes, “it is your love 
that has made me rich. I was poor enough till Friday, and 
had suffered the loss of nearly everything worth possessing. 
To-day I am richer than the Queen.” 

“My darling,” and his arm stole gently round her waist, 
and for several moments of perfect bliss her fair head rested 
lovingly upon his shoulder. 

“Harry,” she said at length, looking at him, “you are an 
earl’s son. I’m almost sorry. But you’ll not let that fact 
spoil you, will you?” 

“I hope not, darling.” 

“My father was rich,” she went on, “but I’m a daughter 
of the people. I love them best. I get nearer their heart. I 
want to serve them. Most of the great, and titled people I 
have seen oppress me.” 

“Sweetheart,” he said, “if I can only help you in your 
work, as I know you will help me in mine •” 

“We will always help each other,” she interrupted, “and 
when you are a barrister you shall plead for the poor and op- 
pressed, for the widow and orphan and those who have none 
to help.” 

And he kissed her and murmured, “I will.” 

********* 


FATHER AND 8 ON. 


281 


That was many years ago. But he has kept his promise 
to the very letter. 

After spending a fortnight at Brynwild he went hack to 
Graystone, dear old Graystone, and took up his studies again, 
where he left them off. Ernest Everett, who was M. A. of 
London University, became his coach for a year, and during 
that time he resumed his interrupted dinners at the Inner 
Temple, and in due course was called to the Bar. 

A week later there was a double wedding in Graystone, and 
opinion was divided as to which attracted the greater amount 
of interest. 

Harry and Monica were married at the parish church, and 
Ernest Everett and Madge in the Congregational chapel. 

Madge got her heart’s desire at last, and went to live again 
in the old home that always seemed dearer to her than any 
other place on earth. 

Mrs. Morton remained at Brynwild. She said she would 
remain there till her husband’s return, when she would have 
again a house of her own. She waited till the hand of mor- 
tality closed her eyes in the last long sleep, and no one ever 
told her that her husband died in abject want in a remote set- 
tlement in Brazil. He wrote out a full confession before he 
died, which was afterwards sent to the authorities in England, 
and some of it was published in the daily press. The comple- 
tion of Bob’s education was taken in hand by Harry, and he is 
now doing well in literature. But poor Dora has completely 
passed out of sight. 

If Madge and Bob know anything they keep their own 
counsel. Her name is never mentioned by them in public, 
yet they do not forget her, and sometimes when Madge feels 
that her happiness is more and greater than she deserves, she 
looks up into her husband’s face and sighs, “Poor Dora! She 
is part of the price paid for father’s sin.” 


THE END. 


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